


Proof of Sentiment

by LollipopCop



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Misunderstandings, Not season/series 4 compliant, Pining Sherlock, Post-Season/Series 03, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence in the last chapter, but a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:02:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 55,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8159881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LollipopCop/pseuds/LollipopCop
Summary: Sherlock accidentally walks in on John and Mary having sex, and he wonders if his relationship with John could ever be the same.





	1. Walking In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock walks in on something he never wanted to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this idea in school, and I just needed to write it down. I don't know how long it will be, but I had a lot of fun writing this first chapter.

Sherlock hated going to John and Mary’s house.

When he was alone, he tried to forget about their marriage as much as possible, but going to their shared living space was a reminder of their relationship which he couldn’t ignore. He hated going there and seeing John’s shoes next to Mary’s by the door. He hated seeing one of John’s silly mystery novels next to one of Mary’s disgusting romance novels. He hated Mary’s little knick-knacks. He hated seeing any evidence that their lives were intertwined--their life of domestic married bliss. He only went over there if he couldn’t get in touch with John any other way.

Which was the case today.

Lestrade finally called with an interesting case fifteen minutes ago. Sherlock texted John four times and called him twice, but there was no answer. Sherlock had pouted and stormed out of his flat with a huff, walking to the edge of the sidewalk and raising his arm to hail down a cab. John couldn’t ignore him that easily. It was childish, he knew, but he hadn’t seen John in a little while, not since Mary announced that she lost the baby.

That was what she claimed, anyway. Sherlock didn’t quite believe it. He had the sneaking suspicion that his deductions were wrong on their wedding night, and Mary purposefully misled him and John to keep John by her side. Maybe she sensed that he was slipping away. After all, John spent more time with Sherlock than he did with her, and a baby was the traditional way to make a man feel obligated to stay with a woman.

Mary was irritatingly perceptive. In the beginning, he hadn’t given her a reason to dislike him, and yet when she thought Sherlock wasn’t looking, she would give him cold, calculating stares. Those stares increased after John’s stag night. Memories of the stag night made Sherlock’s heart pound. He was more drunk than he ever was in his entire life, and he felt absolutely full of joy. John felt that way, too. He could tell. Perhaps it was a blessing the client came in, because Sherlock remembered thinking John looked exceptionally handsome that night, and he was starting to feel a little bit brave, and thought about reaching over and touching John’s face, just to feel his stubble, and perhaps press a quick kiss to his lips. John had grabbed his knee, and the simple touch of his hand had sent a shot of arousal to his cock. When they were falling asleep together on the stairs, Sherlock had been tempted to turn around and curl up to John’s side, too. The entire night was both glorious and tortuous.

Mary must have known they got a little close, somehow.

After Mary shot him without a second of hesitation, Sherlock wouldn’t put anything past her, not even faking a pregnancy and forging ultrasounds. Not anymore. Sherlock had noticed that other than a bump under her baggy clothing, she really didn’t show any signs of pregnancy. He wished he could search her internet history, and see if she purchased a silicon stomach. It bothered him, because if his suspicions were true, then she was deceiving John, and Sherlock wouldn’t let anyone deceive John if he could help it. He had hesitated to tell John, however, because he was already on thin ice after shooting Magnussen and getting high on the plane--two things considered Not Good by John.

John had gone away for a couple days for some boring medical conference he had to attend from time to time, and just as Sherlock was thinking of a way to break the news to him gently, Mary had, apparently, tearfully told John the “bad news” over the phone.

John texted this all to Sherlock, and Sherlock only texted back support, or how much support he could muster. He didn’t tell John that there was probably never a baby, and that it was a tad too convenient that as soon as John was away and couldn’t go to the hospital with her, and as soon as Sherlock became truly suspicious, Mary dropped this bombshell. Sherlock was 99.7% certain he was right, and he hated her even more for it. He knew why she faked this as well, obviously. If she were never pregnant, she couldn’t fake labor and magically produce a baby.

Sherlock allowed himself to hope, perhaps foolishly so, that with no baby tying him to Mary, John would leave her. They weren’t happy, and Sherlock knew it. John had told him he was only going back for the baby. No baby means no marriage. Right? Seems logical enough.

That happened a week and a half ago, and Sherlock decided to give John space. He didn’t know if John were grieving the loss of his daughter, or if he actually suspected Mary’s lie, too. John was always smarter than he looked. Sherlock wanted to ask him about it, but didn’t want to cross any boundaries. If enough time passed and John didn’t leave her, then Sherlock would tell him. John didn’t deserve to be married to someone who did nothing but deceive him.

But today, he had a reason to talk to John: there was a case. They always went on cases.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and got out of the car, telling him, “Stay here, I’ll be back in a moment.” The cabbie nodded and Sherlock stalked over to the front door. He knocked briskly three times, and waited for five seconds. No response. He didn’t have time for this. Lestrade was waiting! He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the key John had given him to the house, and unlocked the door.

He stepped inside and rolled his eyes when he saw no one in the sitting room or kitchen.

_Come on, John!_

Then, he heard music coming from the bedroom, something loud and jazzy. Ah, that was why no one heard him. Imbeciles. Someone could easily come in and rob them blind like that. He huffed an impatient sigh and walked over to the bedroom and flung the door open.

“John, there’s--” The words stopped dead in his throat, and it felt like an ice block fell into the pit of his stomach, his eyes widening, his limbs freezing, heart stopping.

“Sherlock!” Mary shouted, quickly removing her arms from being wrapped around John’s neck and crossing her them over her chest to cover her bare breasts.

John, who was on top of her... _in_ her, whipped his head around, jaw dropping and face turning crimson. “Fuck!” He got off Mary, but it was too late. Sherlock had seen his broad shoulders, muscular back, bare arse, and the back of his sack. If he were to ever see those parts of John, he didn’t think it would have been like this. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the glimpse he got of John’s testicles. If he weren’t so shocked, his mouth would have watered.

As John moved off Mary, Sherlock saw his hard, wet cock leave her vagina, and he felt sick and guilty. He was aware that his mouth was open and his lips were trembling, but he couldn’t move. His throat felt clogged, like bile was about to rise.

Mary closed her legs, aware that Sherlock saw her genitalia. She looked completely affronted, and for once, Sherlock couldn’t blame her. Yet, there was something else in her eyes. She was clearly shocked, angry, but there was a hint of...smugness? Sherlock was in no state to analyze that.

John quickly pulled the duvet over them both and yelled over the music coming from their stereo, eyes fierce and face redder than Sherlock had ever seen, “OUT!”

The ferocity in John’s voice made Sherlock’s limbs zap back to life. He stumbled backwards, almost tripping over his own two feet, turned, and darted out of the house. He slammed the front door behind him and was grateful he told the cabbie to wait for him. He got into the cab and had to clear his throat. “Baker Street,” he said hoarsely.

The cabbie looked back at him through the rearview mirror. “You all right, sir?”

“Fine,” Sherlock muttered, trying to stop himself from shaking.

When he got back into the flat, he shrugged off his coat and scarf with trembling fingers and slumped against the door, legs close to giving out. He felt absolutely nauseated. He felt shaken. He...he forgot about Lestrade.

He sent a text: _Can’t make it._

Sherlock knew Lestrade would ask why, but he wasn’t up for it, so he put his phone on the coffee table and wobbled over to his bedroom. He didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. He sat on the edge of his bed, heart still racing, and clenched his fingers tightly in the duvet.

He was angry at himself for not realizing what was going on. John wasn’t answering his phone or the door, and music was coming from the bedroom? He should have known what they were doing. But, he was inexperienced completely in that area, so he didn’t know. He didn’t know. He was forty and he didn’t know. A blush of shame bloomed on his cheeks. It was just another way Mary was a superior partner for John, he supposed. She knew about sex. He didn’t. He was pathetic. A fifteen year-old would have been able to know what was going on. They were married. That’s what married people do: have sex. Except, he thought...

He was an absolute moron. How could he have thought John might leave Mary now? Clearly they were still oh-so fucking happy. He bit his lip hard, jaw trembling, throat tightening. He never wanted to see that. He was always grateful John did... _that_ with his girlfriends at their homes instead of 221B. He always knew he wouldn’t be able to see John that way with someone else. With self-pity, he thought of John kissing Mary tenderly, slowly undressing her, showering her with the affection Sherlock craved so very much. He shuddered. He imagined John adoring his body more times than he’d like to admit. The image of John naked flashed in his mind, and he growled in frustration when he felt his cock twitch. Was he that desperate that walking in on his best friend and his wife aroused him? Well, no, Mary had nothing to do with it. He grimaced when he remembered her naked body. It wasn’t her fault, of course. He was the one who barged in. But, he could have gone his whole damned life without seeing her genitalia.

He remembered the curve of John’s physique, his arse, his hard cock and his sack…

Sherlock shook his head. No, he couldn’t get aroused over that. He couldn’t pleasure himself to that. It felt indecent. John hadn’t wanted Sherlock to see him that way. But, he knew he would never be able to delete that image from his mind. It was _humiliating,_ though. A strong wave of nausea rolled through his stomach and he jumped up from the bed, running into the bathroom, but only gave a couple dry heaves into the sink before the feeling subsided.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked as miserable as he felt, his eyes glassy and dejected. He went back into his room and curled up on his side, not feeling very well, and noticed he still had his shoes on. He kicked them off and turned on his other side. He was tempted to grab his other pillow and hold it, but--but nothing. It wasn’t like he could stoop any lower. He grabbed the pillow and squeezed it against his chest, feeling like a teenager, his eyes stinging.

Dry-heaving was not a normal reaction to seeing one’s best friend and spouse in the moment, he knew. Sherlock was aware that he was being irrational right now. Humiliation was understandable, he thought, but he felt downright sorrow. It was _John,_ though. He loved John. _He_ wanted to be the one in John’s bed, and yet, he saw irrefutable proof with his very eyes just a half hour ago that John was perfectly happy with his wife. Sherlock didn’t understand. They _weren’t_ happy. Why were they having sex? He bowed his head forward and rested his forehead on the pillow. Maybe this was some other aspect of a sexual relationship he didn’t understand. Maybe people who practically hated each other had sex all of the time. Did John like having sex for the sake of having sex? He didn’t know. They never talked about John’s sex life, of course. Sherlock would have guessed there would have had to been some sort of emotional connection, because deep down, he knew John was a compassionate man. Sherlock could admit to himself that he, himself, could only have sex if there were an emotional connection, which is why he had never been with someone. The only person was John, and that was clearly out of the question.

A bubble of resentment rose in his chest. Mary didn’t deserve the privilege to bed John Watson. She lied to him about everything. She belittled him in front of his friends. She put herself first, always. Sherlock was the first person to admit he was no saint, but if John were his, he would do everything in his power to treat him with the love, respect, and affection he deserved. John deserved so much, and Sherlock wanted to give it all to him. Sherlock would give him anything--everything. He already gave him so much. John had given him the warmth of friendship in return, but he wondered if John truly knew how much he had done for him. Did John care?

He closed his eyes with a shuddering breath, two hot tears rolling down his flushed cheeks. He hated this. If only he had used his brain like normal people did, he would have put the pieces together and not barge in on them. Sherlock had no idea seeing the man he loved be intimate with another person would have such a strong effect on him, but he supposed it was to be expected, considering how much he loved him. He could never forget this. It would forever be burned into his memory. He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to think of this incident every time he saw John.

How could he face John again? Even aside from the pure mortification, Sherlock was certain that remembering him in the act would upset him even more if John were actually in front of him. He swallowed hard. This was his fault.

* * *

 

Sometime in the early evening, Sherlock padded out of his bedroom, disorientated from the nap he didn’t mean to take, and decided to check his phone. There were a couple predictable texts from Lestrade asking why he couldn’t make it. He deleted those. Going by the fact that Lestrade didn’t show up to the flat to collect him, he must not have needed Sherlock that badly. There was a message from John, received two hours ago:

_We need to talk. J_

That was never a good sign. Sherlock didn’t want to talk about it. Why did John? John never wanted to talk about anything. Out of all the things to possibly talk about between the two of them, John wanted to discuss _this?!_

However, Sherlock was in the wrong here. He was the one who went into their house without permission and completely invaded their privacy. He owed John a talk, if he wanted it. It would be painful, though. But he would do it.

**Okay. SH**

He would let John determine when and how they would discuss.

_Can I come over?_

_Oh god_. **Yes. SH**

Sherlock didn’t want to give any of his current feelings away by texting more than one word at a time. He didn’t want to see John right now. There was a bit of dread in his gut, telling him this conversation would not go well.

_Okay, I’m coming over now._

Sherlock felt a shiver of anxiety in his heart. He sat down in his chair with a sigh. He could use a pack of cigarettes. No, John would get angry with him. He promised John he wouldn’t smoke or do any sort of drugs after the plan turned around. It was hard, though, especially in moments like this. He stretched out his legs, figuring that looking casual would be better than revealing how nervous he was through his body language. He groaned at the ceiling. What the hell was John even going to say?

About ten minutes later, he heard the front door open and close, and he pressed his lips together. _Here we go._

John came upstairs and entered the flat, dressed in jeans and a blue jumper, and Sherlock’s mind immediately jumped to the image of him being naked. Sherlock had to stop himself from gasping. John hadn’t even been in the flat for five seconds, and this was already a bad idea. Sherlock sat up and crossed his legs in case his body decided to be even more traitorous.

“John.”

John looked unhappy, to say the least. Somehow the bags under his eyes seemed more pronounced, and the lines in his face were deeper than they had been just a few hours ago.

“Hi,” he said stiffly, left hand opening and closing.

Sherlock already hated this. Should he say something, or let John talk? Perhaps he should apologize first. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, eyes flickering down to the floor, face heating up. He hoped he didn’t have a visible blush.

He heard John sigh. “I know,” John said. “I know you didn’t mean to--do that. And I’m sorry for yelling at you like that.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, you had the right. I understand.”

From his peripheral vision, Sherlock saw John walk over to the coffee table and sit on top of it. He was too uncomfortable to sit in his old chair across from Sherlock. Great. “Just, Sherlock,” John said kindly, too kindly, “you can’t barge into my house like that.”

“Yes, I see the error of my ways,” he said woodenly, staring at his socked feet.

“Why’d you come in, anyway?”

“There was a case,” he said.

“Oh, there was?” John asked, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

Was he disappointed because he didn’t get to go on the case?

“What was it?” John pressed on.

 _Interesting._ Sherlock gathered the will to look at John, and he swallowed. “I didn’t go.”

“You what?” John’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t go on a case?”

“That’s what I said,” Sherlock snapped, the effort to hold back his nerves getting to him.

John’s eyes darkened. Bad move. “All right, it was just a question.”

“Well, now you have the answer,” Sherlock crossed his arms, sniffing, the old habit of masking his pain with arrogance coming back strong.

“Sherlock,” John said lowly, “stop it.”

Sherlock knew he should have stopped right there, but he was upset, and lashed out. “It’s _my_ flat. I can do whatever I want.” Now he truly sounded childish. The emphasis on it being his flat was a jab at John for moving out, and they both knew it.

John visibly winced.

Sherlock felt some of his dark mood evaporate when he saw the hurt expression of John’s face, but then John put up his shield of anger.

“I don’t think you're in the position to act like a prick after what you did today,” he said hotly.

The word _prick_ and a reminder of seeing John naked was not a good combination for Sherlock. “I said I was sorry. What more do you want?”

“Why’d you come in our room in the first place?” John asked, putting his hands on his knees and leaning forward. “You couldn’t fucking _deduce_ what we were doing?”

That stung, directly stabbing his insecurities. He didn’t know what to say, eyes lowering in shame. “I only heard music,” he defended himself weakly.

John scoffed. “Seriously? Come on.”

“I am serious,” he said darkly. “I obviously didn't anticipate arriving at a time while you were…” He bit the inside of his cheek. “Intimate.”

“That’s what married people _do,_ Sherlock,” he said as if he were explaining to a child.

 _Seriously?!_ Sherlock’s eyes shot up to meet his. “I'm clearly not married, so how should I know?” His mind was aware he was about to go too far, but his emotions were clouding his judgment. He felt exposed. “Tell me then, since you're apparently the expert on marriage. Clearly you and Mary have a wonderful relationship.”

John’s shot daggers at him, his lip twitching imperceptibly. “What the hell do you know about relationships, anyway? You proposed to a woman for a case, for God's sake!”

If he were honest with himself, Sherlock could say he still felt guilt over that, although he considered himself even with Janine after the fake sex stories. “I had my reasons,” he insisted.

John shook his head, a bitter smile on his face. “‘Reasons,’ sure. You couldn’t be in a relationship even if you tried.” The second those words left John’s mouth, his eyes widened and his anger vanished, his lips snapping shut.

For the second time today, Sherlock felt like his stomach iced over, but this was worse. He and John had fought over the years, but he didn’t think John ever gave such a low blow. His throat tightened, and he let out a harsh breath. He felt... _furious._ How could John say he couldn’t be in a relationship? He never gave Sherlock a chance!

John gulped, lips parting in a frown “Sherlock,” he said cautiously.

Fire ran through his veins. “Get out.”

John held his hands up, “Wait, I shouldn’t have--”

“Get out!” he nearly barked, heart aching. “You think I'm incapable of feeling? Fine. Leave.”

“I didn’t say--”

“Leave,” he commanded sharply, feeling like his heart could shatter.

John stood up, looked like he was about to say something, eyes filled with guilt, and then utterly deflated. He walked out of the flat, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Sherlock melted into his chair and put his hands over his face, jaw hurting with the effort to keep it from trembling. They were supposed to go on a case today and have fun, but they wound up kicking each other out of their respective homes. How the hell did that happen? Nothing went right with them anymore, not since he returned. Not since Mary.

John’s words echoed in Sherlock’s mind. He thought Sherlock was incapable of being with someone in a romantic capacity. It hurt, not just because he loved John more than he loved himself, but because Sherlock had tried to open himself more since he came back. He failed, apparently. Sherlock knew he sent mixed signals over the years, thinking of himself as a sociopath until recently, but he thought John knew him better than anyone else.

How could Sherlock ever have a chance with him, if John thought he couldn’t be in a relationship?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy making them sad.  
> So, what do you think?


	2. A Phone Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives a phone call from his least-favorite ex-assassin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey thank you all so much for all of the kudos!!! I never got that many for one chapter before :)

Sherlock felt a storm of emotions throughout his body, swirling, nauseating him. He couldn’t identify what he felt the most because the felt a variety of things. He was honestly angry at John for insulting him so, and he wasn’t angry at him often. John had called him names before, called him out for his lack of humanity on cases, for using people to his advantage, but he had never attacked Sherlock’s lack of romantic relationships before; in fact, up until this point, he had always appeared sympathetic to this, even though that would sometimes upset Sherlock, too. Back when the Woman was in their lives, and John incorrectly thought Sherlock was in love with her, he had been supportive, even though John didn’t seem fond of her. Sherlock was there when the Woman revealed that she was alive to John. He heard John grow angry with her, _Tell him you’re alive. I’ll come after you if you don’t._

Sherlock didn’t love her. His heart only had room for one person, and he didn’t think he could love a person who purposefully manipulated him the way she did. The point was that Sherlock didn’t know why John responded the way he did. That was another thing he felt: confusion. How did John change from thinking he had been in love, to thinking he couldn’t be in a relationship? Did the Janine incident get to him that much?

Sherlock supposed, however, that being in love did not necessarily mean he could be in a relationship, and perhaps that was what John thought. That was another big component of what he was feeling: shame. Maybe John was right. Maybe he _couldn’t_ be in a relationship if he tried. He honestly didn’t know; he never tried. He never got the chance. He would try for John, though. He absolutely would. The fact that John apparently thought so little of him, so little of his capacity to care for others, hurt. But, this was partly Sherlock’s fault, wasn’t it? He was the one who paraded around proclaiming sentiment was a _defect_ found on the losing side. He thought his actions spoke louder than his words, though.

Yet, the more he thought about it, he couldn’t exactly blame John for taking his words to heart. There were times when John tried to get closer to him, and Sherlock pushed him away out of fear. How stupid he had been. If he hadn’t been such a coward, then their situation could have been resolved. He might have realized he needed to let John in too late.

Sherlock heaved a long, shaky sigh. He suffered for two years as he took down Moriarty’s web for John. But, no, John didn’t know that. Sherlock never told him. It never really came up. Surely John put the pieces together? Perhaps not. Sherlock planned John’s wedding for him (as painful as that was), went against his heart’s desire and tried to save his marriage, and shot a man for him. Sherlock wouldn’t do those things for just a friend, but maybe other people would. Maybe this was how normal people behaved. He didn’t think that was the case, but he always had a difficult time with what dictated a normal friendship. Perhaps John really didn’t see how much Sherlock had done for him, and Sherlock reminded himself that all of these acts of love might not make him an actual suitable romantic partner. He was still rude, irritating, and insufferable. He knew that.

Even if John truly felt that he couldn’t be in a relationship, he didn’t have to say it, Sherlock thought stubbornly. He had insulted John’s marriage, but that was because they were truly unhappy and he knew it. He rolled on his back and ran a hand over his face. That still wasn’t a good thing for him to do. He was making excuses for himself.

Sherlock didn’t know how to fix this. He was hurt and confused and angry and not really read to talk to John yet, but he didn’t want to lose his friendship. He knew things couldn’t be the same between them, not after walking in on him and Mary, not after the words they exchanged. His heart thumped painfully when he thought of John’s words again, his eyes squeezing shut, the thought of John deeming him incapable of a loving relationship bringing a fresh wave of pain.

Just then, Sherlock’s phone rang. He sat up on his elbows and looked at his phone on the bedside table, wondering and if it were John. From there, he saw that Mary was calling him. He immediately felt uneasy. Mary never called him. They never talked. Sherlock thought that she may have been calling because something bad happened to John, so he grabbed his phone and answered the call.

“What is it?”

“Sherlock,” she said calmly with an air of irritation.

Sherlock sank back into the mattress, relieved the scenario in his head wasn’t true, and annoyed. “Mary. Why are you calling?”

“I think we should have a talk,” she said, completely nonchalant.

“I don’t think we should,” he retorted. He should hang up now. The only thing that kept him from doing so was the possibility of that further angering John. _She’s my wife, Sherlock, you can’t be rude to her like that._ Ugh.

“Oh, I really think we do,” she said with a voice like steel.

Sherlock stayed silent, waiting for her to continue, and a little surprised by her temper.

“It’s about your interference with my marriage,” she stated, calm again.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” he rolled his eyes. “I did not intend to arrive at your house when I did, Mary, I can _assure_ you.” Honestly!

“You didn’t?” she challenged him.

“Of course not,” he said hotly. “Why would I?” Why would he want to see the love of his life have sex with someone he hated?

“I have a pretty good idea,” she said vaguely.

“Where’s John?” he questioned. “You wouldn’t have this conversation with me if John were around.”

“You’re right,” she said, sounding amused. “He went out to a pub after he left your flat, or when you threw him out of your flat.”

Great. John had told Mary. The incident was driving John to drink. Sherlock was glad he was alone, because he was sure guilt was written all over his face. “I see.”

“Sherlock--”

“There is nothing to discuss, Mary,” he cut in, wanting to end the conversation.

“Yes, there is,” she insisted. “Sherlock, I know you don’t have much to do nowadays, but John is married now. He can’t come to you whenever you want.”

Sherlock didn’t even know where to begin. “I don’t have much to do?” he asked incredulously. “What are you talking about? You don’t know my life. You don’t know how I occupy my time.”

“Other than an occasional call from the Yard, what do you do?” she asked accusingly.

“That is none of your business,” he said, trying not to raise his voice. He didn’t want Mary to know that she was getting to him. Since the plane turned around, he actually hadn’t been very busy.

“Oh, please,” she said tiredly. “I know you’re not getting as many calls as you used to. I don’t blame the Yard, not wanting to let a murderer help out.”

His jaw dropped. “You, a hired assassin, are calling _me_ a murderer?”

“This isn’t about me,” she dismissed her violent past, as she always did. “Besides, I left that life behind me.”

“Clearly not,” he said through gritted teeth. “You were going to kill Magnussen, then I came in, and you tried to kill me instead. That doesn’t sound like leaving that life behind you.” Not to mention that she should be grateful for his deed, considering everything Magnussen apparently had on her.

“We’ve been through this.” She sounded bored. “I had my reasons. If you had that much of a problem, you would have gone to the police.”

“The only reason I didn’t was because of John.” He shut his mouth. He slipped up.

“And that’s what I want to talk about,” she said, sounding satisfied.

“What, the Magnussen incident?” he asked, stalling.

“Obviously not,” Mary said, and she sounded like she was rolling her eyes. “Your obsession with John.”

“I am not obsessed with John,” he denied. He thought he might have been, at one point, but that obsession grew into love.

“You are. Or, maybe it’s a crush.”

Sherlock’s free hand was balled into a fist, his insides coiling. He wanted to hang up.

“Or perhaps it’s something more than a crush,” she teased.

He remembered the flash of smugness he saw on Mary’s face earlier, after the initial shock and anger passed. _Oh._ She liked this. She knew what seeing them like that did to him. She was calling to rub it in. She was happy to be in the position he so very much wanted to be in. She felt victorious. Sherlock felt mortified. He needed to say something, or else his silence would be a confirmation. “You don’t know everything, Mary, and you don’t know me.”

“I can tell when you’re fibbing,” she taunted.

Sherlock had to take slow, calming breaths not to shout at her. “I suggest you find something better to do with your time than call me looking for a fight.”

“I’m not looking for a fight.” She nearly sounded offended. “I have a legitimate concern about you, Sherlock, because I know you’ve fallen for my husband.” Now, she sounded mock-sympathetic.

It felt like someone punched him in the gut. He was winded. The fact that Mary knew wasn’t news to him, but the fact that she said it so plainly... He almost coughed into the phone. “You’re wrong,” he lied.

“No, I’m not,” she said sharply. “Anyone could see that you look at him with far more than friendship. It was cute for a long time, but you actively interfered with our marriage today.”

 _Cute._ His emotions were constantly on display, his heart open, and she found it _cute._ “I’ve already said I didn’t mean to interrupt today,” he told her again.

“But, this was the tipping point, not an isolated incident. You’ve been meddling since day one,” she said.

“I didn’t plan that, either,” he shot back.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re besotted,” she accused with disgust, and she didn’t sound like she found any of it cute anymore. “Are you seriously going to tell me you don’t love John?”

An unpleasant bubble of anxiety was in his chest. He wasn’t used to this sort of confrontation. He and John rarely got to the point. Mary had no qualms with speaking her mind and exposing people’s feelings. He did love John. He wasn’t ashamed of loving such an extraordinary man, but he did not want to talk about the contents of his heart with Mary. “I say what I feel is still none of your business,” he said mechanically.

“It is, though, Sherlock: I’m John’s wife. You’re John’s friend. Know your place,” she said simply.

Sherlock’s skin broke out in gooseflesh with the sheer effort to control his indignation. His balled fist shook with suppressed rage. “My place? I’m a grown man, I have no place. Also, I am _well_ aware of your marital status,” his voice dripped with venom. “I was there when it happened.” Before she could chime in with another obnoxious remark, his voice dropped to a dangerous rumble, “And I am aware that you never carried a child.”

She gasped. “That’s ridiculous--!”

“Stop it,” he interrupted her. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? I will admit that you fooled me for quite some time, but I found out. You knew I did, didn’t you?”

She was silent for a moment, then said, “Don’t bother trying to tell John. He wouldn’t believe you. He’d think you’re just jealous and trying to get him to leave me.”

Just like her true identity, this was another major secret she intended to keep from John forever. Sherlock would not allow it. Things were unwell between him and John now, but he would absolutely tell him. Mary didn’t have to know that, though. “Why would John think I’m jealous?” He wouldn’t deny that he actually was jealous of her.

“Just stay out of my marriage,” she ignored his question. “I get why you love John, obviously,” (a direct jab at his feelings), “but your getting in the way of my marriage ends today.”

“Who says?” he challenged.

“I do,” she said coldly. “I’m not saying you can’t ever see John again--”

“As if you could stop me,” he scoffed.

“Don’t come here again,” she said plainly. “Don’t come here, accept that John will not always be there every time you need him to gush over your little deductions, and keep the pregnancy thing our little secret, or I’ll tell John.”

“Tell him what?”

“That you’re desperate for him,” she said, exasperated. “Keep up, Sherlock.”

Sherlock never felt so much shame, so much exposure, in one day. She knew he loved John. She knew the effect John’s deductions had on him. She called him _desperate,_ and he couldn’t say she was wrong.

“If he finds out,” she continued, “your friendship would be over, wouldn’t it? You can’t have a friendship with someone when there’s known unrequited affection, or whatever it is you feel for him.”

Sherlock swallowed, his heart sinking. She was blackmailing him. But, she was right, wasn’t she? Sherlock wouldn’t be able to keep John’s friendship if his feelings were known, and they were unrequited. (Were they unrequited?) He could imagine John politely rejecting him, trying to keep the friendship going for Sherlock’s sake, but not being able to do it in the end, _“I’m really sorry, Sherlock, I just can’t do this.”_ He would be selfish to keep the information about Mary faking the pregnancy to himself, however. He couldn’t just sit on this forever. John had to know. He had to tell John...soon. Sometime soon. But, Mary could have very well been right. Maybe Sherlock should wait a little, just to savor John’s friendship a little longer, before Mary would spill the beans out of spite. That was selfish, too, wasn’t it? It was less selfish than the option of not ever telling John and keeping his friendship forever. Sherlock would tell him, he really would. He just needed time. He needed to prepare to lose John’s friendship.

For right now, he needed to lull Mary into a false sense of security and make her believe he would play along. Sherlock was genuinely uncomfortable, but he decided to make his voice a little stiffer for effect, “You’re right. I believe it will be mutually beneficial if we keep each other’s secret.”

“Exactly,” a smile was in her voice. “I knew you would understand once I laid it out for you. You’re a smart man.”

“I’m aware,” he said coolly.

She hummed in amusement. “Just don’t come to my house again and lay off my marriage.” She hung up.

Sherlock put his phone back on the bedside table with a shaking hand. He rubbed his eyes, sinking into his mattress. That was terrible. He felt worse than he did three hours ago. If Mary thought that revealing Sherlock’s feelings would ruin his friendship with John, then that had to be proof that John didn’t feel the same way.

Or was it? Did Mary just say that to get under his skin? It was possible...But, he didn’t want to take any chances. He didn’t have any plans to confess his feelings before, but it was now out of the question. His chest felt crushed by bitter disappointment. He was stupid to feel this, though. If John had wanted him, he would have made that clear. He remembered the warm, longing looks John sometimes gave him, and Sherlock expelled the memories from his mind. Thinking about that would only further upset and confuse him.

Sherlock remembered, again, how John insulted him earlier, and this time, he felt far less angry and much more miserable. He still had no idea how he would fix things with John, and Mary’s phone call only made things worse. His heart felt like a large hand was pressing down on it. He clutched his chest, yet the aching pressure did not go away. He wished he could forget about this entire situation, and the biting words John uttered. He couldn’t forget anything related to John, however, no matter how much he tried. He wanted to go back to the good old days when things were simpler and their lives weren’t torn apart by Moriarty or Mary, when Sherlock’s love wasn’t suffocating him every time he saw John.

Sherlock crawled under his duvet and sheets and pulled the covers over his head, wanting to feel like he was in his own world. He needed to think. Mary was going to tell John about Sherlock’s feelings. He had absolutely no doubt she would follow up on her threat. Perhaps there was a way Sherlock could prevent the end of their friendship. If, and this was a big if, John didn’t want him _only_ because he thought Sherlock was incapable of a relationship, then Sherlock would just have to prove him wrong. It was perfectly possible (in fact, probable) that John simply had no romantic feelings for him, but this was the only way Sherlock could try to save their friendship. Maybe Mary didn’t know John as well as she thought she did. Maybe John did feel something…?

Sherlock didn’t really think so, but this was the only thing he could do. He needed to savor John’s friendship while it lasted, and attempt to prove that he could be a capable partner, on the outside chance that would prevent John from severing all ties with him. What did he have to lose? He had to at least _try_ to keep the best friendship he ever had. There was also a small part of him that wanted to prove John wrong simply to prove him wrong, after being hurt earlier this evening.

There, he had a mission: prove to John that he could be in a romantic relationship before he told him the truth about Mary. Again, maybe intentionally hiding the truth for his own convenience was selfish, but Sherlock never claimed to be a saint. The problem was that he had no idea how he could possibly prove to John that he could be in a relationship. There was a more immediate issue, too: did John even want to speak to him again? Sherlock was the one who kicked him out today. He hurt John, although he hurt Sherlock first. He didn’t even know the next time he would see John if he couldn’t visit his and Mary’s house. She didn’t say they couldn’t text, though. But Sherlock still had no idea how he would start his next conversation with John, after everything that had been said and done today.

Sherlock closed his eyes, the air under the covers becoming humid and making him tired.

He had no idea how to go about any of this. He felt hopeless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoy making him sad and making Mary an ass tbh


	3. Falling Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go from bad to worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, I actually have a question for you. So, I got 68 fewer kudos on the previous chapter compared to the first. Now, I've written enough stories to know the first chapter often gets the most feedback, but 68 is a pretty notable difference.  
> What I'm asking is: was there some sort of decline in quality with chapter 2? I'd like your feedback. I don't think I'd go back and edit it, because I wrote over 3,000 more words for chapter 3, but I'd take any feedback for chapter 4 on.  
> Thanks, guys. Don't get me wrong, I love every kudo I get! But I just want to know if there was a reason for the decline in feedback.  
> At any rate, I hope you enjoy this chapter. They fight! :D

When Sherlock woke up, the first thing he registered was feeling warm and unpleasantly sticky around his groin. He grimaced and groaned, knowing exactly what the feeling was. He ran a hand through his hair and opened his eyes. He pulled down the sheets and saw a wet spot at the front of his pants, and he nearly rolled his eyes at himself. He hated nocturnal emissions. They were nothing but a mess to clean up. He only enjoyed self-stimulation when he was awake and he could fully enjoy it. His treacherous mind and body must have dreamt of John while he was asleep, which was an increasingly frequent occurrence. He couldn’t remember the details of the dream, only having a vague recollection of John’s hands on his skin. Then, he fully remembered what happened yesterday, seeing John and Mary, the shame, the fight with John, the phone call from _her._ Sherlock sighed, his heart heavy and throat tight. It was hard to believe all of that happened under twenty-four hours ago. So much changed between him and John in such a short amount of time, but he supposed that could have been said for their entire relationship. Did they really know each other for six years? In the grand scheme of things, six years was not a long amount of time, but what he referred to in his mind as Before John felt like a lifetime ago.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands. He thought that a night’s sleep would give him an answer to his problem, but he felt just as lost as he did a few hours ago. Waking up this morning, wet and miserable in his bed, only emphasized how lonely and pathetic he was without John. He wondered for the thousandth time what waking up with John was like, and he forced his brain to stop the thought. That was pointless if John didn’t even think he could be in a fucking relationship.

He got bitter when he was tired. A swirling bubble of misery encompassed his heart.

Sherlock got up and unplugged his phone from its charger, turning it on. Lestrade texted him thirty minutes ago:

Hey, you still want to help out with that case?

They didn’t solve it? Imbeciles. _If you still require my assistance. SH_

Actually, this would serve as a good opportunity for Sherlock to attempt to temporarily mend his friendship with John, until he told him about the pregnancy and Mary told all. He shouldn’t wait it out; it was uncommon for John to initiate interaction first, and he might think Sherlock didn’t want to speak to him for a while. He still didn’t know how he was going to convince John that he could be a suitable romantic partner, but getting them back on speaking-terms was a good start. John would want to go on the case with him, right? Even if he declined, this would let John know that Sherlock wasn’t actually angry with him, not anymore. Perhaps he should have been, perhaps he should have had more self-respect, but he didn’t like being angry. He was only hurt. He just wanted to spend time with John before the end of their friendship. His stomach rolled unpleasantly at the thought.

Sherlock texted John:

_The offer for yesterday’s case still stands. You haven’t solved it yet? SH_

John responded surprisingly quickly. Sherlock wondered if John had been waiting for a message from him, but dismissed it as wishful thinking.

**You want me to come?**

Sherlock felt a nervous kick in his heartbeat. Was John asking because he was uncertain, or as a way to subtly indicate he didn’t want to go?

_I wouldn’t have sent the previous message if I didn’t. SH_

He waited with baited breath for John’s response. Meanwhile, Lestrade texted him:

No, and a new body popped up today.

_What’s the address? SH_

As Lestrade texted him the location of the body, John responded: **Yeah, okay. Where do I have to go?**

Sherlock’s muscles relaxed with relief and he couldn’t stop a tiny grin from pulling up the corners of his lips. He texted John the addressed and got dressed as quickly as he could, throwing on a shirt and suit, not bothering to comb his hair, and brushing his teeth so quickly that toothpaste wound up getting on the bathroom mirror and sink. Unimportant. He would clean that up later, or Mrs. Hudson would.

He spent the whole can ride vibrating with energy, a part of him nervous, because he wasn’t entirely sure how he should approach John. Act casual? Probably the best idea. If he let John see that he was hurt, it would only make things more uncomfortable, and Lestrade and his crew would be around to see it. He had to act like he was okay, and he had to keep hiding Mary’s secret from John for the time being. That bothered him. He didn’t like lying to John. It never ended well. It always put a huge crack in their relationship. He bit the inside of his cheek, watching the traffic rush by. There was also the knowledge of the inevitable end of their friendship hanging over his head, and it would hang over his head during every single one of their interactions until the time came. He looked down at his clasped hands. He needed to stop thinking about it, or there would be no way he could focus on the case or act fine. It was so hard, though, the situation was constantly there in his mind. He wished he could have stopped thinking of it for five minutes. He couldn’t.

Sherlock arrived at the victim’s flat, and saw that John was standing outside, waiting for him.

“John,” he raised his eyebrows, “hello. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“I’ve only been here for a minute,” John said with a forced smile, the tension from yesterday still present.

“I see,” Sherlock said, and he felt an awkward weight descend upon them. He averted his gaze. He didn’t want to look at John for too long, or else he would be reminded of what he saw yesterday. No, don’t look at him. Don’t think of that. Think of something else. He thought of how quickly John got here, and briefly wondered if he left the house as quickly as possible for a reason other than urgency to solve the case. No. Wishful thinking. John was supposedly happy enough with Mary to have sex with her. He found that out perfectly well yesterday.

“Lestrade’s inside,” John said with an awkward cough. “Let’s go.”

Sherlock nodded silently and strode into the small flat with John in tow, ignoring the team dusting for prints, going into the kitchen where the victim’s body lay on the floor by the stove. Standing over the older woman’s body was Lestrade.

“There you are,” he greeted them.

Sherlock looked down at the victim’s stab wounds. “Clearly you don’t need me to tell you how she died,” he said dully.

“Not exactly, no, we’d like to know why she was killed as well as her daughter yesterday, but just to be sure, John?” Lestrade addressed him. “Will you examine her?”

“Sure,” John nodded, retrieving a pair of surgical gloves from his jeans pocket.

“You carried those with you?” Sherlock asked in amusement, eyes scanning the home, and he had a feeling he knew the answer to the case already.

“I always expect to look at a body when it comes to your cases,” he said dryly.

Lestrade chuckled and Sherlock smirked, and it almost felt normal again, humor in the air while standing over a corpse, until John crouched down to examine the body. He crouched down on his knees and bent over the body to examine the wounds. There was nothing out of the ordinary with his behavior, but this time, Sherlock looked at his back and arse and his mind flashed the image of John’s naked skin before his eyes. Suddenly, that was all he could see--John’s muscular back, strong thighs, the curve of his arse...He blinked rapidly. This was just plain _indecent_. They were at a crime scene, for god’s sake. Even he wasn’t that insensitive. Getting an erection while solving a woman’s murder was more than not okay. He gulped, but his disgusting mind betrayed him again, and he thought of John’s sack, and the hard, wet length of his cock. Heat bloomed on his face. He had been able to control his fantasies before, when the image of John’s naked body only came from his imagination.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, “you okay? You’ve got a weird look.”

John turned his head, eyes shooting up to him in concern. “Sherlock? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, pulling his coat tightly around himself, hoping to conceal any possible indication of a bulge. But Sherlock was looking at John’s face clearly for the first time since he got out of the cab, and the heat in his face drained. His eyes quickly roamed over John’s features. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced due to a lack of restful sleep. John went to the pub last night, but Sherlock knew he slept like the dead when drunk, so he couldn’t have gotten that inebriated. There was a small, red mark on John’s bottom lip that wasn’t there yesterday--a mark from _teeth._ However, John didn’t bite his lips very often; he licked them. That, combined with the position of the mark at the corner of his mouth, an odd spot to bite one’s lip, told Sherlock that someone _else_ bit John’s lip. He didn’t need to ponder who it was. So, John didn’t get much sleep last night, and Mary was kissing him rather forcefully…

Sherlock didn’t need to think about it anymore. They had sex again last night.

He swallowed a hard lump, the weight on his chest pressing down harder. He somehow thought that John wouldn’t have wanted to have sex again with Mary for a while, because...because...He didn’t know. He just thought...something. He couldn’t put his thought into cohesion. He just thought _something_. He sucked in a deep breath.

“Sherlock?” John stood up, getting worried.

There went the whole plan to act casual. Stupid body reacting to John’s jean-clad arse, and stupid heart for bursting with emotion.

“I don’t know why you called me, Lestrade,” Sherlock spoke rapidly, “the victim was clearly killed by her daughter’s ex-lover because she was the one who urged them to break up, so he murdered them both out of revenge. Ridiculous, you could have solved this on your own, you wasted my time.” He got all of that out in single breath.

“Wait,” Lestrade put his hand up in exasperation, “how did you--?”

“I’ll text you later!” he snapped, raising the eyebrows of Lestrade, John, and the forensics team in the other room. Great. He must have looked like a raving buffoon. Throat tight and cheeks burning, he stalked out of the flat, looking straight ahead, wanting to get out of there right _now._

“Sherlock!” John called after him.

Sherlock left the flat and started walking down the street, but he knew John was going to catch up to him. He didn’t even know where he was going, so he would have had to stop walking sooner or later, anyway.

John grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, confused, concerned, and a little bit angry. “What the hell happened in there?”

Sherlock had to look away from the mark...what did people call those...hickeys? No, that didn’t apply to lips, right? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t have an answer for John, and he was too upset to make one up. It was one of the few times in his life when he could only stare back silently, like a child who had been caught in a lie. He wasn’t lying about his feelings right now, though. He just wasn’t telling John the truth. But, no false statements left his lips. That counted for something.

John blinked, clearly waiting for a response, and then his eyebrows lifted slightly, surprised when Sherlock continued being silent.. “Sherlock? Are you in there?”

“I…” He couldn’t admit what he was feeling. “I don’t feel well.” Okay, that wasn’t a lie. He did feel dreadful.

“I can tell,” John said, the small amount of anger disappearing and concern taking over as the primary expression on his face. “Do you feel sick? It couldn’t have been the body, right? You’ve seen worse.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” he dismissed immediately. “I dissect body parts in my free time, John.”

John snorted. “Yeah, I know.” He realized he was still holding Sherlock’s shoulder, and removed his hand, clearing his throat, instantly breaking the tiny moment of humor.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered down to the sidewalk.

“So, er,” John crossed his arms over his chest (a defensive stance, Sherlock noted), “if it wasn’t the body, what was it?”

 _Drop it, John!_ “Something private,” he said.

John stared at him dubiously. “‘Private,’” he repeated.

“Yes.” Sherlock stood his ground, because technically, that wasn’t a lie, either.

His brow furrowed. “I don’t believe you.”

“What?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“I think you’re full of it,” John said, and now he started to sound a little irritated. “I lived with you during the time of the Woman and Moriarty, and neither of those people had you running out of a crime scene like that.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “what does _she_ have to do with any of this?”

John pressed his lips together. “You felt--things, for her, but you still worked through it.”

“I did not,” Sherlock said lowly, now beginning to grow defensive and angry. He didn’t like when people made assumptions about his feelings, especially not John, especially not after yesterday.

John opened his mouth, looking like he was getting ready to refute that, but stopped himself, perhaps realizing it wasn’t right of him to insist on someone else’s feelings. “Moriarty,” he said instead, “I know Moriarty got to you.”

They didn’t talk about Moriarty often, about the man who tore them apart for two long, agonizing years, and changed their relationship forever. Sherlock didn’t like even thinking about him. He wasn’t afraid of him anymore, in his mind, but he preferred not acknowledging his former existence. John didn’t like talking about him, either. Sherlock knew he hated being reminded of the time he grieved. It was a touchy subject for both of them, and Sherlock most certainly didn’t want to talk about him now.

Although, John was right. No one interfered with Sherlock’s work before. Well, before John.

“Your point?” Sherlock asked.

“He got to you, and you carried on. What private issue has got you so worked up?”

“Why does it matter to you?” Sherlock glared at him.

“Because you’re my friend, damn it,” John shot back, dark eyes piercing, “and when my friend looks like he’s about to take a bloody panic attack out of nowhere, I want to know what’s going on.”

Sherlock felt guilty. John was only trying to help him. But, he couldn’t say it. What was he supposed to do, admit he almost got hard staring at his arse, and then deduced that he and his wife had sex last night, and that upset him? He obviously couldn’t do that.

“I wasn’t going to take a panic attack,” he said, indignant.

“You looked like you were, but fine.” John gave him a tiny nod. “Go on, tell me your symptoms if you don’t feel well.”

Shortness of breath, chest pains, racing heart, sweating palms, trembling legs--that would only prove John’s point. “It’s _private,”_ he insisted, because he didn’t know what else to say.

John sighed tiredly. “Sherlock,” he looked up at him pleadingly, his eyes sparkling in the morning light, shoulders slumping. “Come on.”

He looked small, suddenly, and tired. Sherlock wished he could have comforted him. He looked at the bite mark again. Jealousy burned within him. _He_ wanted to make a mark like that.

And then, Sherlock was too uncomfortable, and John was too close, too gorgeous in the sunlight, and it was too much, everything too close to the surface, so he said, “You don’t have the right to know every miniscule detail in my life, John. I’m entitled to keep things to myself.”

The open, pleading expression vanished. John’s lip twitched, and he nearly snarled, “Well, I’m fucking sorry for being concerned about you, Sherlock.” John said his name with venom, and Sherlock hated it.

He bit his lip, feeling more terrible by the second. “Just leave it, John.”

John shook his head, rubbing his eyes with his hands, which were now bare, Sherlock saw. _Of course they were, why would he keep clothes that touched a corpse on his hands?_

“Is it about what I said yesterday?” John asked quietly, licking his bottom lip.

Sherlock didn’t expect that question at all. His lips parted, he blinked, swallowed, and no words came.

John frowned deeply. “It is that, isn’t it?”

“No,” he said weakly.

John gave him a look. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock breathed in deeply, looking past John. “It’s fine, John.”

“It’s clearly not,” John said, and his tone was hushed, and remorseful. “Fuck, I’m a twat. I’m sorry, Sherlock. It wasn’t right of me to say that, to attack you for just being you.”

Sherlock wanted to feel better from the apology, but no, John considered him not being capable of a relationship just him being him. That made Sherlock feel worse, in a way, like John thought to himself, _That’s just Sherlock. Not his fault for being a machine. That’s just him my crazy detective friend. Poor, abnormal Sherlock._

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and looked down at his shoes. “Leave it,” he said, words almost muffled from his lips touching his scarf, masking how small his voice really was. He didn’t want John to think about him that way at all, and he felt indignant that John thought he knew everything about him. He lifted his chin, “Why don’t you go home to your wife? Clearly you two enjoy each other’s company, going by yesterday and the mark on your lips.”

John’s eyes widened and he brought his hand up to touch that exact spot. He knew what Sherlock was talking about, then. “We didn’t--” He stopped.

Sherlock hoped his features didn’t portray his surprise. They didn’t...have sex? His deductions were wrong?

But then, John’s face hardened, he stood up straight, and folded his hands behind his back. He swallowed, voice cool, “If that’s how you’re going to be, fine. I’ll go. Goodbye, Sherlock.” He walked away, arms falling by his sides and hands clenching into fists.

Sherlock stood there, alone on the sidewalk, and aware that he made things significantly worse in a matter of five minutes. His hopes of proving to John that he could be in a relationship were crushed. He seriously didn’t know what to do now. John was angry with him, and Sherlock found himself angry, too. He wasn’t this morning, but then this happened. He hated feeling so much in such a short amount of time. It was exhausting. His thoughts were threatening to overwhelm him in public, so he decided to lock them away until he got back into the safety of 221B. He decided to walk home. That would take much longer than hailing a cab or taking the tube, but it wasn’t like he had anything to do now, anyway. The case was solved. He would text Lestrade later in the day. He didn’t have anyone to go home to.

He was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohohohoho, what will happen next???? I don't know lol I have to figure it out


	4. Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock calls for some help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thank you all SO MUCH for commenting and leaving feedback on the last chapter. From what you guys told me, I guess the kudos situation wasn't reflective of my writing, so it was just a weird thing? I don't know, but I really, really appreciate your honesty. Thank you. And you guys left a really generous amount of kudos on the last chapter, so thanks again :)  
> Sorry I couldn't get this out to you sooner. I got a cold last week. It wasn't anything serious, and I'm fine now, but it was enough to make me too tired to write.

After two days of doing nothing but wallowing in self-pity and coddling his broken heart, Sherlock dreamt of John and Mary.

In his dream, he and John were in a random field, standing close enough so one step would have brought their bodies together. They were laughing about something, and Dream John almost looked as beautiful as real John when he laughed. In the quick and nonsensical way dreams occur, the laughter stopped, Sherlock leaned down, and they were kissing. But it ended just as quickly as it started, because then Mary was there, roughly pulling John away from him, a murderous glare fixed on Sherlock.

“Don’t be an idiot, John,” Dream Mary said. “This sociopath can’t feel anything for you.”

Dream John immediately scowled. “Yeah,” he scoffed. “What the hell was I thinking?”

“John, wait!” Dream Sherlock pleaded. “I love you. I love you more than  _ she  _ ever could. We just kissed, don’t you remember? I could only kiss someone I love--you must believe that.” Dream John and Mary were walking away, and Sherlock tried to run to them, but his legs were rooted to the ground. He struggled and grunted and groaned, but his body would not move. He shouted,  “Please, John, give me a chance, and I’ll love you until my dying breath!”

Dream John and Mary looked at them over their shoulders and cackled. John turned away, and Mary kept looking at him, and sneered, “Aw, sad you won’t get to choke on his cock? Well, you’ll have to take care of  _ that  _ some other way.”

Even in his dream, he felt immense mortification. His dream self looked down, and he had an obvious erection. He tried to cover it up with his hands.

Dream John gagged. “Aw, hell!”

Dream Mary snickered. “Shame you came back from Serbia too late,” she crooned.

Sherlock woke up with tears on his cheeks. It was ridiculous, because most of the dream was laughably over the top, but his emotions in the dream had been real, and his mind targeted all of his insecurities. His words were true; would have loved John until the moment his brain ceased to function. If he believed in such a thing as a soul, he would have loved John for eternity. Dream Mary was right, wasn’t she? He came back too late. He frowned deeply at the--other part. There was a fear inside of him that John would be absolutely disgusted if he ever showed an interest. John wasn’t homophobic, he knew, but his mind couldn’t shake it off. It appeared to be connected to his overall fear of rejection from John, and rejection of his body was an extension of that. He never showed his body to anyone, not while aroused. The thought of mustering up the courage to undress himself in front of John, and for him to be disgusted...If that were to ever happen, he doubted he could deal with it. He was getting ahead of himself. No point in thinking about undressing for John when they weren’t speaking.

He put a hand over his hammering heart. He turned on his side in the darkness of his room, cursing Mary for making him miserable even in sleep.

But, it was his dream the following night which really got to him. The first dream attacked his fears, but this played with his desires.

He dreamt that he was in bed, the soft, grey light of the morning painting the room in a gentle glow. John was in his bed, smiling sleepily at him. “Hey,” Dream John said in a rough voice. His hand reached out, and he stroked Dream Sherlock’s cheek with his knuckles. 

That was it. That was the dream. It was much shorter than the last, but it made Sherlock’s heart  _ ache.  _ He woke up, touching his cheek where Dream John’s fingers had been, and he could have sworn he felt warmth. He wanted intimacy. He wanted to share a bed with John, be caressed and loved, be in the comfortable safety of his bed with the mean he loved. The corners of his eyes stung. The dream was so simple. He didn’t want a much from John. Just his attention and affection.

What a fool he’d turned into.

After that, Sherlock admitted to himself that he needed help. He didn’t know where to go from here, but if his relationship with John remained this way, it would surely crumble. That was probably what Mary wanted, and he wouldn’t let her get her way Sherlock didn’t know who to turn to, however. He didn’t want to talk to Mrs. Hudson about this. He adored her, but he didn’t like talking about John too much with her. She knew John, and he didn’t exactly trust her not to spill any beans. He could have called up Lestrade, but wasn’t sure what reaction he would receive. He didn’t want to risk any embarrassment. He didn’t think Lestrade would ever purposefully hurt his feelings, but they weren’t exactly close like that. In fact, now that he thought about it, John was closer to Lestrade. So, he was definitely out of the question. He needed someone he could talk to, but who didn’t talk to John. 

Sherlock frowned. He couldn’t call Molly. He didn’t know if she still felt things for him, but it seemed cruel, to him, if he called her asking for relationship advice. He knew she had a crush on him for years, and now felt guilty about the way he used to manipulate her. He had been selfish and wrong. He had the same problem with Janine. Sure, she slandered him in the press and considered them even, but thinking about how he led her on made him internally kick himself. He had simply been cruel, and hated the guilt he felt over the entire thing. Even though he thought she would be fine with him calling, he didn’t want to do it, for his sake more than anything.

Mycroft wasn’t even an option. Besides, Mycroft knew less about relationships than he did. When he thought about it, everyone who had popped into his head weren’t exactly experts in the romantic department; all of them were currently single, Mrs. Hudson’s relationship ended with an execution, and Molly had fallen for Moriarty.

There was only one relationship he could think of that was working out for decades, and he knew their relationship wasn’t for show, but had a genuine, strong bond built on mutual respect and love.

He couldn’t believe he was about to do this. But, he was desperate. He didn’t know what else to do. He needed to fix things, and somehow find a way to let John know that he was capable of being a good partner. He would risk being pathetic for John.

Sherlock sat down in his chair with a long sigh. He pulled out his phone, and for the first time in several months, dialed the number to his parents’ house.

As expected, his mother answered the phone. “Sherlock!” she said cheerfully. “What a wonderful surprise!”

“Hello, Mummy,” he said, sinking down into the cushion of his chair.

“Oh, dear, it’s been ages since you’ve called! You know you’re always welcome to give us a ring, Sherlock, you mustn’t be shy--”

“Mummy,” he interrupted. He knew she could go on for a solid ten minutes. “I’m calling you for some--advice.” His cheeks bloomed with warmth. This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation. He rarely asked anyone for advice, let alone his parents, and never about his feelings. He needed to suck it up and get this over with. He trusted his mother. She wouldn’t use any of this to hurt him. It was still going to be irritating, though.

“Really?” she asked. “You haven’t asked me for advice since you were a boy.”

“I’m aware,” he said.

“Well, it must be serious. Are you alright, Sherlock?”

“I’m perfectly safe,” he assured her. She always worried about him, but moreso after he got shot. He couldn’t blame her, there. He braced himself, swallowing. “You and Dad have been married for quite some time.”

“Yes, forty-three years,” she said, now sounding confused. “What does that have to do with anything?” She was right to be suspicious, because Sherlock never asked about their relationship.

He pressed his lips together. “Well, you see, I assume you know how to initiate and maintain a relationship?”

There was silence on the other end for a long beat. “Oh my goodness,” she said.

She knew, then. She was too smart, although he and Mycroft had to have gotten their intellect from somewhere. “Mummy, please don’t make a fuss.”

“I can’t believe...My Sherlock wants to be in a relationship!”

This was quickly turning into torture. “Must you do this?” he hissed, palms sweating.

“I can hardly believe it. I mean, I always knew you had a big heart, Sherlock, but I never thought you would allow yourself to show it to someone!” She actually sounded like she was close to tearing up.

He wanted to hang up. “If you’re going to sit there and gush over me like I’m a child experiencing a primary school crush, I’ll take my leave.”

“I don’t mean it that way, Sherlock,” she said firmly. “I’m just happy for you. Really.”

He frowned. He shouldn’t have assumed the worst. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “But, can we please get to the matter at hand?”

“Of course, I’m sorry. What’s the issue?”

He thought about how much to tell her. She was no prude, but there were certain things he simply didn’t want to share with his mother. “Well--”

“Wait,” she cut him off, “who is it? You didn’t tell me.”

_ Here we go.  _ Sherlock closed his eyes, thankful she wasn’t actually in the room with him. “John.”

She gasped. “But he’s married, Sherlock!”

“I’m completely and utterly aware of that fact,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

“Oh, of course, that’s why you’re calling.”

For as intelligent as she was, his father was right: she was a flake. “It’s not just that,” he said. “Over the past few days, it’s gotten more complicated.”

“How? Mary didn’t have the baby yet, right?”

Oh. Of course she didn’t know. “Mary’s not pregnant,” he said.

“What?” she asked, perplexed. “I saw her baby bump, Sherlock.”

Sherlock felt an odd twinge in his gut. He didn’t want to tell his mother the truth. He didn’t know why. Perhaps for John’s sake, to save him any embarrassment from being fooled by a woman pretending to be pregnant. “She lost the baby,” he said.

She gave a sad sigh, “How awful.”

He didn’t want to discuss it any further. “They’re not happy,” he brought the subject back to their marriage. “They haven’t been happy for quite some time. At least, I thought they weren’t,” he mumbled.

“They seemed tense at Christmas,” Mummy said thoughtfully. “Mary sat in the other room by herself for most of the day. But, what happened that made things more complicated?”

His heart was heavy like stone when he thought of the event. “I walked in and saw something I didn’t want to see,” he mumbled.

She immediately made a sympathetic sound in her throat, knowing what he meant. “That’s unfortunate.”

He snorted. “That’s an understatement. That made things quite tense between us, and we argued, and to make a long story short…” He felt like his face was going to burst into flames. “How can I fix this, and prove I can be a capable romantic partner?” He was forty, asking his mother for romantic advice. He felt disgustingly pathetic.  _ Do it for him. _

“Do you think John and Mary will divorce?” she asked.

_ After he finds out about the fake pregnancy, yes. _ “I believe so. But, their divorce does not translate to him running to me.”

“I see your point,” she said thoughtfully.

“I don’t know how to fix our friendship after fighting,” he admitted.

“Well, Sherlock, I can only help you so much when you insist on being vague,” she pointed out.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to give you the play-by-play.” That was between him and John. 

“Fine,” she gave up. “I know not to fight with you for details by now. But, Sherlock, your John seems like a jealous man. That’s just the vibe he gives off. Why don’t you make an arrangement with someone to pretend to be in a relationship, act loving, and make John see what it would be like with you?”

Sherlock blinked, an odd, twisting sensation in his chest. Was she serious? “And play with John’s feelings like that? It would all be a lie, and wouldn’t prove anything about my romantic capabilities; in fact, it would prove John’s current mindset to be true. I don’t want to lie and manipulate him Mummy, how could you suggest that?”

Mummy let out a satisfied hum. “I’m so glad you said that! There was a time in your life when I think you would have jumped at that plan, but you’ve grown so much in the past few years.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “You were testing me.”

“I was,” she confirmed. “You want to be honest with him. You’re more ready to be with someone than you ever were.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that. “That...doesn’t necessarily mean much.”

“But it does, dear. Your heart is ready for romance.”

He held back a snarl. “Please cut out the romanticism.”

“We’re talking about romance,” she pointed out calmly.

“Still,” he said stubbornly. “You haven’t actually given me advice.”

She sighed. “I can’t do this for you,” she said, “no one can. You have to do this on your own. I know it isn’t easy, especially after you closed yourself off for so many years. Each relationship is different, Sherlock. What works for your father and I may not work for you and John. My only advice is to stop hiding what you feel. Then, he’ll see the real you.”

Sherlock’s nose scrunched up in annoyance. “I don’t need vague ramblings, Mummy, I need an actual strategy.”

“You’re a genius,” she said. “You can figure it out.”

“But--”

“I haven’t seen you and John interact much,” she continued. “I’ve only seen him a couple times. I can’t assure you that he has feelings for you. But, from what you’ve told me about him, he’s not the type of man to abandon you if your feelings are unrequited.”

Now he remembered why he didn’t enjoy talking to Mummy; next to John, she knew him better than anyone else. He lowered his eyes, staring at the carpet.

“If you don’t try, Sherlock,” she said gently, “if you never find out for sure, if you never resolve this, it will eat you alive.”

His heart constricted. She was right, but there was Mary, who would reveal his heart soon. “Mary knows,” he said. “She knows. It’s a matter of time before she tells him.”

“She’d do that?” Mummy asked, a hint of danger in her voice.

If only she knew about the identity of his shooter. “She would,” he said grimly.

“Then, you must tell him before she does!” she commanded.

“Why? What difference does it make?”

“I think John would much rather hear it from you than her.”

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip, his brain churning. John held honesty in high esteem, especially after his “death,” and discovering Mary’s alter ego. Perhaps hearing it from him would be better. He could beat Mary to the punch; take her power away. He really thought about it. If John didn’t love him back, Sherlock still didn’t believe he would appreciate Mary holding Sherlock’s feelings over his head as blackmail. John may not have loved him, but he didn’t like seeing him hurt. He knew that. His heart jittered. John was going to find out sooner or later. Could telling John himself prove that he was ready for a relationship?  _ Oh god.  _ He had to do it. He would have to tell John. He still wanted to hold off a little bit, do it softly, gently, so he didn’t scare John away. (And keep his friendship while his feelings were ambiguous.) 

“What do I do?” he asked, the smallest hint of desperation in his tone. 

“I told you, you need to do this on your own” she said seriously. “The only other thing I can tell you is to treat him the way you want to treat him. Don’t put up your walls around him anymore. He may notice the difference.”

Sherlock hated not getting any straight answers. He sighed in frustration, heart thumping. “Fine. But, things are uncomfortable between us. Will you at least tell me how I could get us back on speaking terms?”

“That’s easy: talk to him,” Mummy said simply. “It may be a pleasant surprise.”

_ Useless!  _ He gritted his teeth. He thought. He didn’t know how his parents actually got together. Maybe he could find out what happened with them, and go from there. “One last thing: how did you and Dad begin dating?”

“Oh, it was simple,” she said happily, “he left a bouquet of roses on my doorstep.”

That was disgusting. He rolled his eyes. “Okay. Thank you.” He hung up.

Sherlock put his phone on his stomach and rubbed his eyes, groaning. Phone calls with his mother always exhausted him. He wanted a bloody straight answer, damn it. He knew she was right, deep down. His relationship with John was very different from hers and Dad’s. He had to do this on his own. Dread filled his stomach. That didn’t mean it was going to be easy.

He took a long, deep breath. He picked up his phone. The first step was getting back on speaking terms. He had to bite the bullet. He had to be the brave one for once. There was no offer of a case. He had to straight-up talk and be himself. That was terrifying.

He thought of what would compel John to answer back. He didn’t want to text John, wait hours for a reply, and receive none. Be honest. Be open. 

He texted:  _ I don’t want to fight with you. S _

His fingers shook and he curled up in the chair, pulling his knees to his chest. He didn’t realize he was biting his lip until he tasted copper on his tongue. He released his bottom lip from his teeth.

John answered him.  **I don’t want to either.**

Sherlock...didn’t know where to go from there. He pondered, his long index finger tapping his lip.  _ Are you angry with me?  _

The message came up as “seen” almost instantly. John must have been holding his phone, just as Sherlock was, waiting for a response. 

**No. Are we good?**

_ We’re good if you think so. _

**Then we’re good :)**

Sherlock couldn’t tell if the smiley face was genuine, or John’s attempt to convince him they were fine. It felt good to know John wasn’t angry, but Sherlock felt no resolution. He felt no better than he did before calling his mother. He now knew he had to confess his love, but that only made him more uneasy. It would be the hardest thing he ever had to do. John needed to be lulled into the idea of Sherlock loving him, that much he was certain. Drastic expressions of emotions frightened them both. He needed to be simple. Subtle.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. He needed to get out of his comfort zone. He needed to be  _ romantic.  _ He needed to act like other people. He went on his phone and looked up the directions to the nearest florist.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Sherlock's parents aren't used enough in fic, so I went with him seeking help from his mother instead of other suggestions I received, like Janine or Irene Adler. I actually wrote a bit with Janine instead, but it was shit, so I deleted it and started from scratch lol.  
> And Sherlock's clueless lol


	5. Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gives John flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. I'm sorry for taking longer than usual to update. The U.S. election happened and I didn't feel like writing for days. All I'll say about it here is that if you need to talk, my tumblr inbox is open. It'll be okay.  
> So, technically Sherlock hurts himself in this chapter, but it isn't exactly self-harm. Like, he doesn't do it out of depression or self-loathing or anything--you'll see :P I just wanted to give you a heads-up in case you're sensitive to that stuff, but I promise it only lasts for like a second. You could skim over the lines if you want because it's such a short moment.

Sherlock felt absolutely ridiculous. He refused to make eye contact with anyone at the flower shop, knowing that probably he felt more embarrassed than was warranted. He had no idea what kind of flowers John liked, or if he even liked flowers at all. After anxiously scanning the store for a minute, his eyes settled on a simple bouquet of a dozen red roses. Their color was warm, simple, but intense, and it reminded him of John. He thought they looked appealing, and he wanted to give John something nice. Roses were traditional. He couldn’t go wrong with them, right? He would give them to John.

For a brief moment, he entertained the fantasy of him and John actually being in a relationship, living together at 221B again. He would come home to John with the bouquet as a surprise, and he thought of John’s eyes lighting up and a smile blooming on his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Sherlock imagined John walking up to him, standing on his toes and planting a firm kiss on his lips, and thanking him for the roses, saying he was a great partner, and rewarding Sherlock by taking him to bed.

Sherlock shook his head, disgusted with himself. What was he, twelve years-old?

He looked down at his shoes as he paid for the bouquet. As he left the shop, he was sure his face was as red as the roses.

The problem was that Mary couldn’t find out the roses were from him, or else she would surely spoil everything before he was completely ready. Thus, Sherlock could not deliver these to John’s house. He would deliver them to John’s surgery. Once Mary became too “pregnant” to work, she stopped helping John out at the surgery, and from what Sherlock understood, claimed that she was still too emotionally distraught to go back to work at this time. Sherlock wasn’t sure if John believed her, or simply preferred her not being there. Sometimes, John seemed like he couldn’t stand her, but other times, like a few days ago...Sherlock became confused. People didn’t have sex with those they disliked, at least, Sherlock didn’t think they did. He certainly wouldn’t, which was why he never had anyone before. It seemed like a waste to him, to expose oneself and use energy on someone he couldn’t stand.

No matter. He would use Mary’s absence to his advantage. He wanted to know how John reacted to the flowers, but he couldn’t text him directly asking, because that would be utterly obvious, or fish for information by randomly texting John about how his day was going at work. They didn’t do things like that. They only texted each other out of necessity anymore. When they lived together, their text conversations were more frequent and casual, but of course, that stopped after he jumped. He remembered the lazy days when he would hang around the flat in his dressing gown, not having much to do, but enjoying the peace by texting a bored John at work all day. Sometimes, Sherlock felt like that was when they were the most friendly with each other. It was easier to hide behind a screen, especially for him, when he couldn’t contain his fond smile or hide his warm cheeks. When John would come home on these days, he was always in a good mood, and they were more likely to spend the evening together.

The memories made him nostalgic.

Back to the point. Sherlock needed to see John’s reaction to the roses. He had to see if he liked them. He had a plan for--there was no other way to put it-- _courting_ John. (The thought made him feel odd.) He would do small romantic gestures, such as the flowers, anonymously, and let John figure out who was behind it. When they were together, he would do more subtle gestures, like pull out John’s chair for him if they were about to sit down at a table, or help John out of his jacket, and let his touch linger just a little longer, enough to make an impact, but not enough to arouse immediate suspicion. It would be a delicate thing.  He wanted to ease John into the idea of him being a suitable partner, to not overwhelm him. He didn’t think John would catch on right away, so it would allow him to grow fond of whoever was his, for lack of a better term, secret admirer, and by the time he figured out it was Sherlock…

That was where a couple things could happen. John could either be pleasantly surprised, accept Sherlock’s gestures, and reciprocate accordingly, or he could let Sherlock down and tell him that he wasn’t interested, that they’re just friends, he’s not gay, and he’s married. Sherlock was almost positive he would receive the latter response, but at least at that point, John wouldn’t be able to see he was incapable of being in a relationship. No matter what, though, Sherlock was going to tell John the truth about Mary once he put the pieces together. That was the other reason why he was doing this anonymously: he couldn’t let Mary know what he was doing. She was perceptive, though. She could figure it out before John did. She would absolutely want to know who was sending her husband flowers.

Sherlock hoped John wouldn’t tell her about it. Maybe he could convince him to stay quiet during his visit to the surgery.

His plan for today was thus: he would go home, disguise himself, deliver the bouquet to the front desk, leave, toss away the disguise so the receptionist wouldn’t recognize him and ask questions, injure himself, go in the surgery as himself and request John’s care, claiming he was in the neighborhood, and ask about the roses.

Okay, it wasn’t one of his more refined plans, and he knew John would highly disapprove of inducing self-harm, but Sherlock wasn’t going to seriously injure himself. He planned on squeezing a glass bottle until it broke and glass lodged into his hand, that was all. Nothing serious.

Sherlock sighed. If Mycroft found out, he would say that was “self-destructive behavior” and have him sent to a mental hospital. He did not want to inflict harm upon himself out of depression or self-loathing. It was for a purpose, and he would be fine. He got glass stuck in his hands from experiments many times before. He would inflict no further harm upon his body afterwards. He knew what he was doing, and didn’t plan on doing it again anytime soon.

In his bedroom, he looked at himself in the mirror. He wore a fake white beard with a long, white wig under a wool cap, sunglasses, and a brown trenchcoat. It was good enough. He just needed to look enough like someone else so the receptionist wouldn’t recognize him when he came in as himself with his injured hand. He put his own coat in a brown paper bag along with an empty glass bottle and left his flat with the roses.

When Sherlock arrived at John’s surgery, he quickly slammed down the bouquet on desk, startling the receptionist, Mary’s temporary replacement, and said in the most cockney accent he could muster, “Tell Doctor Watson he has a delivery. These are for him.”

He stormed out before any questions could be asked. He backed into a nearby alley, took off his disguise, put it in the brown paper bag, and put on his coat. He ruffled his curls, which had been flattened from being under a hat and wig. He took out the glass bottle. Was this too much? Was he insane? No, it would just be a small cut. Just a flesh wound. He squeezed the bottle in his hand hard until it popped, and he let out a small yelp of pain, dropping the glass on the ground. His cuts stung sharply and he held it up, seeing small shards of glass sticking out of his skin, and droplets of blood slowly slid down his palm. Perfect.

Sherlock went into the surgery, now looking like himself, and didn’t see the roses on the front desk. Good--John got them. He held up his hand to the receptionist. “Hello, I understand I could see a doctor here?” he asked, putting on his fake friendly smile.

“Oh, goodness,” she frowned, standing up. “Doctor Watson’s in between patients, so you can go right back. Follow me.”

Sherlock followed her down the hall, biting his lip. His hand hurt more than he thought it would.

She knocked on the door, “Doctor Watson? You have a patient. He’s not scheduled, but he’s injured.”

John opened the door right away. “Is it serious?” he asked, and then his eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and concern. “Sherlock?”

“Hello, John.” Now that he was actually here, he was a little apprehensive. Humor. Humor always lightens the mood (except when he tried it at the restaurant when he came back from the dead, but he didn’t want to think about that now). “I thought you could give me a hand,” he said, and held up his (increasingly) bleeding hand.

John’s eyes widened for a moment, and then he looked exasperated. “Oh shit, Sherlock!”

The woman looked surprised by his language.

“We’re friends,” John explained, then stepped away so he wasn’t blocking the door. “Come on,” he said to him.

Sherlock almost strutted in the room like a peacock. He had missed John’s combination of care and exasperation. It was one of the things that made him John.

The woman nodded and walked away.

Sherlock followed John inside, scanning the room quickly, and spotted the roses on a nearby table with medical supplies.

“Sit down,” he pointed to a stool.

Sherlock sat in it, putting down the bag with his disguise.

“What’s that?” John asked.

“Oh, nothing,” he said innocently.

“Hold out your hand,” John told him. Sherlock did, and John frowned. “There’s pieces of glass lodged in your hand. How’d you manage this?”

“I was taking a shortcut in an alley, but tripped and fell on broken glass,” he lied easily. He may have been trying to stop lying to John in general, but this was a small lie. No big deal. He’d tell John the truth later. Maybe. “I was in the neighborhood and figured I could come here,” he said.

“I’m glad you did,” John said as he retrieved a pair of tweezers. “Be more careful next time, you git,” he scolded, and grabbed Sherlock’s hand with firmness and gentleness, the touch of a doctor, and the touch of a friend. “It’s not in too deep,” he said, “so it should only be a small pinch.”

“I can handle it,” Sherlock said smoothly. John began carefully extracting the glass out of his hand, and Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. It hurt a little, but it was tolerable. John’s gaze was fixed on his hand, determined, and Sherlock became very aware of John’s strong hand holding his. He looked away, and used the silence as an opportunity. He casually looked around the room. “Roses?” he asked. His eyes darted back to John’s face.

John looked at the roses for a second, “Oh, yeah.” He removed the last piece of glass from Sherlock’s palm and looked back at the bouquet. “They came for me about ten minutes ago.”

Sherlock made an interested hum in his throat. “That was nice of Mary,” he commented.

John glanced up at him, looking puzzled. “Actually, I don’t think they’re from Mary.”

“Really?” Sherlock feigned surprise. “What makes you say that?”

John’s mouth twisted to the side, “Well, I--oh, wait. Let me clean the cuts on your hand.” He grabbed some cotton balls and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “I don’t think I need to tell you this’ll probably sting.”

“I know how it goes,” Sherlock said.

John poured a small amount of alcohol on a cotton ball and took Sherlock’s hand again, softly wiping at his cuts.

It did sting, but John’s movements were light, Sherlock wondered if he were this gentle with all of his patients. He pressed his lips together.

“The roses don’t have any sort of card,” John told him, eyes cast downward. “I mean, if Mary sent them, wouldn’t she have attached put a card with a message on it, even just her name or something?”

Sherlock was about to say that he wouldn’t know, since apparently relationships weren’t his area, but he bit back the sudden burst of bitterness. That was counterproductive. “Most likely,” he said instead.

John aimed at a trash bin and threw the used cotton ball in it. He reached for gauze, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Seriously? My hand is perfectly functional.”

“Oh yeah?” John crossed his arms. “Stretch out your hand and flex it without wincing.”

Sherlock stretched out his hand, and the sting from the cuts made his eye twitch.

It was John’s turn to roll his eyes, but there was a hint of a grin on his lips. “I’m covering wrapping your hand.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Sherlock grumbled, holding out his hand petulantly.

John gave a small chuckle. “Brat.” He began wrapping the gauze around his palm. “So, um, yeah. I don’t think they’re from Mary.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock said. “Who do you think they’re from?”

“Honestly? I haven’t got a clue. I mean,” he snorted, “who’d wanna send me flowers?”

 _ME!_ “Surely there’s someone,” he offered.

John looked up at him, curiosity in his eyes.

Sherlock stared back at him.

John stood there, staring at him and holding his hand. “Like who?” he asked.

Sherlock swallowed, holding John’s gaze so a shift of his eyes wouldn’t give away his nerves. “From what I gather about social constructs and traditions, someone who harbors affection for you.”

John continued staring at him, and for a moment Sherlock thought he was caught, but then he said, “You’re the most observant man in the world, can you deduce who sent them?”

That was not supposed to happen. Sherlock had to stall. “Do you want to know who sent them?”

John blinked. “Yeah,” he laughed. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You like them?” he asked carefully.

John looked back over at the flowers, and Sherlock saw the faintest hint of pink dust his cheeks, and he chewed on his bottom lip. John then shrugged, looking back down at Sherlock’s hand, getting a scissor the cut off the gauze from the roll. “It’s a little old-fashioned, but who doesn’t like flowers? It’s thoughtful, even if it’s a little creepy ’cause I don’t know who it’s from.”

 _Old-fashioned._ Oh, yes, his mother and father were quite old. Well, that didn’t matter: John liked them! Sherlock almost squirmed with glee. He made John _blush._ He wanted to kiss John’s flushed cheeks. His heart beat hard in his chest. John was beautiful when he blushed. Sherlock would test the waters a bit more. “Perhaps Mary wanted to surprise you?”

The beautifully flustered look on John’s face diminished to a frown. “Like she’d do that,” he muttered. He let go of Sherlock’s hand. “There you go. You should be fine in a few days.”

Sherlock’s bandaged hand fell to his side, and he stared down at John. He didn’t want to appear like he was interrogating John, but he needed answers. “Why wouldn’t Mary do that? Isn’t that what spouses are supposed to do?”

John gave him a look of pity, like he was thinking, _“Poor Sherlock, he doesn’t know how marriage works.”_

Sherlock couldn’t help but shoot daggers at him, not preventing a growing scowl from his lips. He loved John, but he was so damn thick sometimes. _Don’t patronize me._

John cleared his throat, ashamed, and looked down. “Not her,” he said darkly. “I’d think they came from Anderson before I’d think they came from her.”

Sherlock wanted to laugh at that, but John’s expression stopped him. “Why not?”

John’s eyes shot up at him, giving him a stern look.

Sherlock’s mouth tightened. “Am I prying?”

John shook his head. “It’s all right. Let’s just say she’s not the most thoughtful person and leave it at that, okay?”

Sherlock knew that. He had a scar on his chest to prove it. He was troubled by how unhappy John suddenly seemed. This new information made less sense. If they were that unhappy, why did they have sex? Sherlock wished he were normal so he could understand.“Okay,” he said in resignation. He would find out more at another time, perhaps when Sherlock told the truth about her.

John cleared his throat. “So, who’s it from? What clues do you see?”

 _Damn._ Sherlock looked at the bouquet. He couldn’t flat-out lie, because he did want John to find out they were from him eventually. “I’m sure you can gather it’s from someone you know.”

“It is?”

“Of course,” Sherlock looked at him. “Do you think a stranger sent you a bouquet of roses?”

“That...sounds stupid, yeah,” John put his hands in his pockets. “It’s just, I dunno, weird to think about. I don’t know a lot of people. You think it could be from a former patient?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow curiously. “What makes you say that?”

“If, hypothetically speaking, a patient fancied me, they’d know if they sent something here, it’d get to me.”

Sherlock would play along for a moment. “I see. Did you take any interest in a patient recently, or notice that one had taken an interest in you?”

“No, and no,” John said, eyebrows furrowing, thoughtful.

“Whoever it is,” Sherlock said, “the sender does not want you to know who is behind it yet.”

John cocked his head to the side. “How do you know that?”

“Call it a hunch,” he said simply. He loved when John cocked his head to the side. He looked like a puppy.

“What, you’re not going to launch into a three minute deduction?”

“I’m tired,” Sherlock said dismissively. “My hand hurts.”

John didn’t look convinced. “You sure you’re okay? Was that fall outside harder than you’re letting on?”

“I’m fine, I assure you. Anyway, the flowers are from someone who knows you, the person does not want you to know who he is yet--”

“Wait,” John cut in, “‘he’?”

Sherlock slipped up. He had to roll with it. “Yes, ‘he,’” he said slowly. “A woman would have chosen brighter, more delicate flowers. Roses are simple. Plus, the stems are pressed together hard near the middle, the indication of a large, strong hand holding them together. These are from a man.” He hoped he sounded mechanical. His eyes roamed over John’s stunned face. That look made him anxious. “You’re surprised.”

“A bit,” John said weakly. “I didn’t, um, I didn’t expect that, no.” He looked winded. “I don’t think a bloke’s ever fancied me before.”

Sherlock decided that he had to leave. If the conversation went any further, then it opened the opportunity for John to defend his supposed heterosexuality. Sherlock didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to think about John turning down the flowers, or any romantic gesture, because he was a man. It may come to that eventually, but he considered his mission done for the day. John liked the flowers. That was what mattered now.

“Well, you’ll figure it out,” Sherlock said briskly. “Thank you for this, John,” he lifted his injured hand.

“Oh, yeah,” John said, blinking hard like he snapped out of a trance. “Yeah, no problem, Sherlock.” A pause. “Don’t get hurt again.”

“I’ll try not to.” He stood from the stool, grabbed the bag with his lame disguise, and turned on his heel, ready to walk out, but one more thought stopped his legs from moving. “What will you tell Mary?”

“Mary?” John almost sounded confused. “Oh, right. She’ll probably want to know someone sent her husband flowers.”

Sherlock looked back at him from over his shoulder. “Do you want her to know?”

John looked torn, like a great moral crisis was whirling around in his head. He sighed. “Sherlock, you’re my friend, but can we not talk about this?”

Sherlock felt a kick of disappointment to his heart. He would have to wait and see if John would tell Mary. If he didn’t, then perhaps that was a good sign, that John wanted to hold out hope for the possibility of finding another partner. He would have to see. He held John’s gaze for a long moment, their eyes locked. “Apologies,” he murmured, voice unintentionally soft and deep.

John licked his lips.

“See you around, John,” he said.

“Yeah, see you,” he sighed. “Call me if there’s a case?”

“Of course,” he flashed a grin, and walked out of the room, face falling as soon as he was out of John’s line of vision.

When Sherlock got home, his heart was aching, and he didn’t really know why. John liked the roses. They made him blush. He said it was thoughtful.

So why did he feel so hollow?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even the act of giving flowers is angsty for them.  
> I figured I would disguise Sherlock to look like the dude who John actually thought was him in "The Empty Hearse". No reason other than a nod to canon :P


	6. Talking About It. Sort of.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's plan creates some problems in the Watson household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking a little long to update. I had finals to prepare for, but I'm done now!  
> 

Throughout the rest of the week, Sherlock made use of his homeless network. He would call one member to his flat daily and give them something to deliver to John’s clinic. John never really interacted with Sherlock’s network, and certainly didn’t pay attention enough to know everyone’s face, so he figured it was safe enough to send them. Since the bouquet of roses was a moderate success, he figured that he could send a few similar items before taking a larger step. He had a plan within his plan: give him more items, and when they saw each other again, Sherlock would “deduce” that John received more things from his secret admirer, and then, he would see John’s reaction to the developments. It would be more believable to deduce and ask about the situation now, as opposed to asking out of the blue if John had gotten any flowers, Sherlock reasoned. Upholding the secret was key, for now. He wasn’t ready for John to find out yet. He imagined telling him now, and John scowling, _“Was this some sort of experiment, then? Hm? Had fun toying with my emotions?”_ He had to work with John’s trust issues, and considering Sherlock lied about being dead for two years, he understood why John might not trust his intent.

He sent another bouquet to John on Tuesday, this time of lilies. John liked flowers once, so why not another time? Just two times, though. A third time would be pushing his luck. On Wednesday, he decided to go a little further and give John an expensive bottle of scotch, believing a box of chocolates would be ineffective considering he, himself, was the one with the sweet tooth. He attached a note to the neck of the bottle, typed so John wouldn’t see recognize his handwriting: _Will you tell your wife?_

It was risky, he knew, but this would be an essential test to see where John’s mind was. If John really planned on telling Mary, this might serve as the final straw for him.

“Be careful not to drop it,” he ordered the member from his network for the day (Viola? Violet? Vienna? He was never good with first names).

“Who’s all this stuff for?” she asked. “I heard from the others that you sent flowers to someone?”

“Do you want to get paid?” he asked impatiently.

“Yes,” she sighed.

“Then don’t ask questions.”

He rolled his eyes as she left, and in the privacy of the empty flat, he allowed himself to imagine John receiving the bouquet yesterday, smiling softly, a blush dusting his cheeks. He genuinely seemed to like the roses, even though he tried to downplay it, and Sherlock wondered if John had a true soft side buried under years in the service. Sherlock wanted so desperately to know his soft side.

To his surprise, John texted him the next evening after the scotch.

**Sherlock?**

Did John figure it out already? Was the note a mistake? His fingers typed tentatively. _Yes? SH_

**Can I stay over your place for the night?**

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. The only time John spent the night at the flat since his marriage was during Sherlock’s recovery period from Mary’s bullet, during that painful but hopeful period when he foolishly thought John would go back to him for good. (Why was he wrong? Why did John go back to her?) He had no idea what to make of this. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be good.

 _Of course._ He hesitated. He wanted to ask if everything was okay, but he decided to do that in person, and sent the message as it was.

 **Thank you** , John’s message said. **I’ll be over soon.**

Sherlock felt oddly nervous. He looked around he flat, and deemed it clean enough for John. He looked in the mirror. He was in a white dress shirt and black trousers, curls slightly disheveled from lying on the sofa, and he forgot to shave this morning. There was no time to shave now. He fixed his hair in irritation, reminding himself that John may not give a damn about his looks. A small part of him entertained the idea that John really did feel something for him, and he gulped. It was ridiculous, though. It wasn’t as if John would come in and call him handsome and notice he fixed his hair. He needed to stop his heart from allowing his brain to entertain the illogical.

Sherlock sat in his chair and got a book from the bookshelf, wanting to appear casual when John arrived. Sherlock thought that he could try to bring up the gifts delivered to the clinic, but if John were upset for some reason, he didn’t know if that would be an appropriate subject. What were they going to talk about, anyway? Did John want to talk at all? It seemed unlikely. Perhaps, for some reason, he wanted to get away from Mary for awhile. If so, that was a good sign. The image of them having sex flashed in his brain, and he grimaced and shoved it away, cursing his mind.

Twenty minutes later, the door opened, and John entered. He had dark circles under his eyes, noticeable tension in his jaw, and his mouth was set in a hard line. He had a duffel bag in one hand, most likely containing a set of pajamas and his toothbrush.

Sherlock felt guilty for hoping whatever happened could benefit him somehow. John was unhappy. That never made him happy. “Hello, John,” he said from behind his book.

“Hi,” he said gruffly, shutting the door behind him.

“Make yourself at home,” Sherlock said. He didn’t want to appear aloof, but knew that if he started asking John questions right away, it would only make him angrier. He would wait until John spoke first. He turned a page and pretended to read, watching John from his peripheral vision.

John shrugged his coat off, hanging it on the hook attached to the door. His shoulders were rigid, and his hands balled into fists. He dropped the bag to the floor with a soft _thud._ He swallowed and cleared his throat. He was getting ready to say something. He sighed, turning to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped back to the page.

“Sherlock?” John addressed him, voice tight.

“Yes?” He looked up. Now that his eyes were taking him in again, it occurred to him that John had been shouting recently, his anger barely concealed beneath the surface of his dark, piercing eyes. He must have fought with Mary and came here. Sherlock was glad that he came to him, but felt a twinge of resentment that John didn’t come here just because he wanted to see Sherlock. He hated feeling resentment towards John. He knew it wasn’t right of him. He hated this.

John’s lips tightened imperceptibly. “I...Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, closing the book.

“For, you know,” he licked his lips, “letting me come here after, you know.”

“No, after what?” He set the book down on the floor against the chair. “What are you on about?”

John sighed in irritation. “After last time I was here.”

“Oh.” He bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t expect John to bring that up, but then again, John brought it up when they were on the case together. It seemed like a part of John wanted to talk about it, and another part didn’t. Sherlock had mixed feelings about kicking John out the other day. He had honestly been hurt by what he had said--he still was hurt, in fact--but maybe he overreacted. Or, maybe he didn’t. John must have felt bad about it, though, if he swallowed his pride and thanked Sherlock for letting him back in. He wasn’t sure if he could keep John out if he tried, especially when he asked. “It’s...don’t mention it, John.” He meant that literally and figuratively.

John nodded curtly, getting the hint. “Right. Um.” He motioned to Sherlock awkwardly. “Was I interrupting something?”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock crossed his legs and waved his hand. “I was passing the time. I’m bored.”

“Of course you are,” John said, the corner of his mouth ticking up. “No experiments?” He walked over to his chair and sat down. “No cases?”

It felt good to have John across from him again. “Unfortunately, no,” he said. “I would have told you if there was a case.”

John hummed.

An uncomfortable moment of silence. John’s eyebrows were set in a deep furrow, and Sherlock wanted to smooth out the tension with his thumb.

It was cold outside, and the night wind blew through the old walls of the flat. Sherlock had been ignoring the chill, but now he had an excuse to do something. “I’ll make a fire.” He got up and fiddled with the fireplace. Once a fire was burning brightly, he sat down again. John was wearing a wine-colored jumper, and the glow of the fire made him look warm and inviting, despite his palpable misery. Sherlock used to love nights like this, sitting across from each other as the heat from the flames lapped at their socked feet. Those nights, they would speak in fond murmurs with small smiles, and Sherlock’s love would wrap around his being like a soft blanket, instead of feeling like the usual crushing agony.

John rubbed his eyes. “You’re wondering why I’m here, aren’t you?” he asked tiredly.

“I am,” he admitted.

John turned his head and looked at the fire. “Mary and I had an argument.”

 _Obviously._ “About what?”

He stared at the fireplace. “Remember when I patched up your hand? Wait,” he looked at Sherlock, “how is your hand?”

“It’s fine,” he held it up. “The wounds are doing well, but I still have bandages on it to quicken the healing process.”

“Good,” John looked relieved. “Good.” He lowered his eyes. “Anyway, you remember the roses?”

God, this really did have to do with his scheme. “I do,” he confirmed. Dread uncurled in his stomach. “Did Mary find out?”

“Not about those,” John shook his head, looking down at his hands, “or about the other ones, either.”

“Other ones?” Sherlock asked dumbly.

“I got more flowers yesterday,” John told him, and through the warm but dimmed light of the flat, Sherlock saw the smallest of blushes on his cheeks. “It wasn’t roses, though. Lilies, or something. No idea where those came from, either. But, yesterday, I got a bloody bottle of scotch, and a nice one at that.” He sounded incredulous. “I couldn’t believe it,” he looked up at Sherlock. “I mean, that’s a step up from flowers, and pretty damn soon, too.”

 _Too soon._ Did Sherlock miscalculate? “So, did Mary find out about the scotch?” he asked.

“Yes. There was a note on the bottle, too.” John then reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the very slip of paper Sherlock had put on the bottle.

Sherlock’s heart was trembling.

John read it, “It says, ‘Will you tell your wife?’ Sherlock, this person knows I’m married.”

“I told you he knows you,” he said, controlling his nerves. “If he knows you, then it makes sense for him to know you’re married, yes?”

“Yeah,” John folded the paper and put it back in his pocket, the worried line in between his eyebrows more pronounced. “It’s just--”

Before he could continue, Sherlock cut in, “So you told Mary?” He had to know.

John’s left hand twitched on the armrest. “Well, no.”

Sherlock could have sworn he heard his own heartbeat.

“I kept this note in my pocket, but brought the bottle home, because I obviously have no use for it at the clinic. I can’t drink on the job. I told Mary that I bought it, and she believed me until she did the laundry today and found that note in my pocket. I was a fucking idiot for forgetting about it,” he frowned.

“She thinks you’re cheating on her,” Sherlock concluded. This was bad. Mary would surely suspect him. But, if she did, why didn’t she tell John about his feelings yet?

“Yeah,” John said hollowly. “I told her I’m not. She doesn’t believe me. She…” he trailed off, and wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes.

 _Why?_ “I’m...sorry,” he said uncomfortably. John would think the apology was out of politeness, but it was because Sherlock made him unhappy. He wanted John and Mary to break up. He wasn’t selfless. He could admit it. But he wanted John to decide on his own, and not have _Mary_ break up with _him_ , and go back to Sherlock as a default. He botched this up. He always hurt their relationship.

John huffed a breath out of his nose, and shook his head. “It’s not your fault.”

If only he knew. He was guilty. “You’re still my friend. Is there...anything I can do?”

John glanced at him, the tension in his shoulders releasing by a fraction. “Thanks, but I don’t think so. Well, no, actually, you’re already doing something by letting me stay here.”

Sherlock’s lips pulled into a grin that didn’t meet his eyes. “Don’t mention it.” He wanted to ask John one more thing, and then he would drop the subject for the night and let John forget about Mary for a few hours. He pursed his lips together. “John?”

“Mmm?”

“What do you plan to do about this man?”

John half-heartedly shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think I could even stop them--him--if I wanted to. I don’t know who he is.” He seemed to have trouble getting his mouth to pronounce the masculine pronouns. At this point, Sherlock was beginning to believe that it really was because John had a hard time wrapping his head around a man having feelings for him, and not any sort of homophobic repulsion. John would have said something to assert his (supposed) heterosexuality by now.

“Do you want him to stop?” Sherlock asked quietly, but intently. He would immediately stop if John didn’t want it.

John looked at the flames again, clearing his throat. He was silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “I really don’t know. On the one hand, it almost feels kind of creepy--"

Sherlock frowned. He didn't count on that.

"--but if he is some stalker, I can take him. I'll punch that fucker in the face if he's some prick."

That made Sherlock smirk.

John went on, "It feels like I don't have enough to go on right now. You don't think this guy is dangerous, do you?"

"Absolutely not," Sherlock said immediately. "If I thought so, I would tell you."

"Then why doesn't he just talk to me?"

Sherlock hated this conversation. "I think he's afraid to come forward at this time. I can assure you, John, that this person is not some stalker planning to harm you."

"How do you know?"

Cornered, Sherlock just tapped his finger to his temple, gesturing to his mind.

John looked exasperated. "If he doesn't come forward soon, like in a few days, then I might take action."

Sherlock's heart stopped. "What kind of action?"

"Well, you say he's safe, but I'd like to see that for myself. If he keeps sending stuff to my office? I want to actually find out who the hell he is."

This was not good. At all. Sherlock was silent. Of _course_ John wasn't going to be a passive participant in this, when was John ever passive? Sherlock felt like an utter fool. He thought this would be romantic, but John was concerned that he was a stalker! He miscalculated. Maybe he really didn't know anything about romance after all. This felt like a blow to the chest.

John looked at him curiously. "Are you okay?"

He cleared his throat lightly. He couldn't panic now. He would think about this later, after John left. "What would you do, report this to the police?"

John looked conflicted. "Maybe. I dunno. Or just try to find a way to meet this guy. In a public place, obviously, just to be safe."

This was terrible. Sherlock was running out of time! His mind was moving so quickly his head was starting to hurt. He thought he could go through with his plan and slowly make John fall for his suitor, but that clearly wasn't going to happen. How did he so grossly underestimate John Watson?

"Aside from the creep factor," John went on, "I feel like a prick.”

“Why?” Sherlock sat up straight, putting his fingers together in a steeple for comfort. He needed to stay calm.

“It feels like I’m cheating,” he explained. He looked back at Sherlock, features contorted with guilt. “I know I’m not technically doing anything, but I hate being dishonest with her. She’s still my wife.” His voice dropped. “Even if we’re not getting along. It doesn’t feel proper, you know?”

He didn’t know. Mary shot him. He would betray her and have her jailed in a heartbeat if it weren’t for John. But, he knew John was a man of honor and integrity. Of course John wouldn’t cheat. “I see,” he looked down at their feet. He was stuck. He didn’t want to upset John any further, but John didn’t outright say he wanted it to stop… “Well, why don’t you want this man to stop courting you?” he asked bluntly.

John’s lips parted, and this time, Sherlock was certain he saw a blush. “That’s what he’s doing, isn’t it? It’s...Um, it’s kind of nice. It’s nice someone’s going out of his way for me. It’s considerate. Maybe he’s a nice guy. It's only nice if he's nice. But, who knows? He could be some arsehole creeper. Like I said, if this keeps up, I'm going to do something about it. I don’t know anything about him. I--” he sighed and put his face in his hands, “I feel like I’m going out of my mind, actually. I mean, this happened out of nowhere. Suddenly, some bloke is _courting_ me.” He lifted his head. “What do I do, Sherlock?”

A large part of Sherlock wanted to throw away the pretense and confess now. But, no. It was too soon. John still wasn’t sure what to make of his suitor’s actions. Sherlock wanted John to want his secret admirer.  “What do you want to do?” he asked carefully. “This is your life, John.”

John blinked. “I think," he said slowly, "I think I want to know more about him. Even if he's a weirdo. I'm curious." 

“You will.”

John looked at him questioningly.

“I’m sure the gifts will become more personalized from here on out,” he said, planning as he spoke. “I’m sure of that much. If not, you'll find out if you try to hunt him down, yes?" It was difficult to keep his voice steady. John was going to confront him soon. It would either go beautifully or horribly. His heart was in his throat.

John nodded slowly, taking it in. “Okay. Okay. I see. I can’t believe this is happening to me. It’s mad. I never thought I’d be in a situation like this. I still feel like a prat.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. If he were going to get anywhere with John, he had to dig deeper. “You’re unhappy,” he said softly. “If this is giving you some sort of happiness, then is it not worth pursuing?”

John was frowning deeply. “I guess you’re right,” he said slowly. “I guess, I mean...She and I have been going through a rough spot, but that doesn’t give me the right to do this.”

“You have the right to be happy,” Sherlock insisted. He normally did not approve of cheating, but John wasn’t really cheating yet, and it was Mary, of all people. Mary, who lied to John about her pregnancy and miscarriage. She manipulated him. If John had sex with someone else right now, Sherlock thought he would be justified. He knew most people wouldn’t agree with him.

John looked conflicted, like he wanted to agree with Sherlock, and wanted to follow his own moral guideline. Sherlock couldn’t help but feel fondness at this. His John never changed.

“I don’t know,” John sat back in his chair. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. If this bloke keeps it up and it turns out he’s not some weirdo, maybe--I don’t know.” He sighed heavily, looking emotionally drained. “Well, I guess it’s only fair to give this guy a chance, right? At least for another couple days or so, before I decide to end things. If he sends something else with no indication of who the fuck he is, I'm doing something. It's strange, though. He’s went through a lot of trouble. Sends a different delivery person too, apparently.” He eyed Sherlock. “You really can’t tell me more about this person?”

“I really can’t,” Sherlock said.

It occurred to Sherlock that his suspicions were correct; John really must not have known how he felt about him. John wouldn’t have talked about this situation in depth if he knew Sherlock had even the slightest bit of non-platonic affection for him. John wasn’t cruel. It made more sense now that John didn’t think he could be in a relationship, since he truly didn’t know Sherlock cared for him so deeply. The realization made him feel slightly better, but frustrated as well, because again, he thought that all he did for John got the message across. Apparently not.

John looked like he wanted to end the conversation. “Well, all right. I guess there's nothing else to do about that situation but wait and see. Thank you, Sherlock, for listening. I know this isn’t your thing.”

A dagger found its way into Sherlock’s heart, and John’s eyes widened.

“No,” John leaned forward. “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, when do we ever talk like this, about emotions and bloody romance? It’s unusual, is all.”

Sherlock relaxed a little. “That’s true,” he said. “I don’t mind, though.”

“You don’t?” he asked, the flames from the fire glowing in his dark eyes, knees close to his.

Sherlock wanted him so badly. “Not when it has to do with you,” he said softly.

For the first time since he walked in, John’s features completely softened, and a warm smile took over his face.

Sherlock smiled back, his heart dancing.

John looked down, almost bashfully, then looked back up. “So, um, any plans for tonight?”

“No, why?”

“Is this one of your nights when you’re willing to sit down for a bit?”

“Perhaps.”

“Want to sit on the sofa and mock crap telly?”

Sherlock bit his lip to stop his smile from growing. “Sounds agreeable.”

“Do you still have that blanket?”

“That Mrs. Hudson gave us?”

“That’s the one.”

“I do.”

“Fetch it, will you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyyy they're starting to bond and warm back up to each other. I think there's going to be some fluff next chapter. Some accidental snuggles? Maybe idk  
> And yeah Mary isn't stupid lol. What will she do????  
> Edit: I've edited this chapter a good bit since I first published it. I lost sight of how creepy Sherlock's actions could be perceived lol. It's just that I know Sherlock isn't a creep, you know? But it'd be more realistic for John to be more wary. This was brought to my attention in a comment, and it's actually going to change the course of the story. I'll add some more of that in the next chapter. So, yeah, if you read this chapter when it first came out and are reading it now, you'll see some big differences.


	7. On the Sofa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John spend a night on the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooooo thank you for all of the kudos! I meant to thank you for getting this past 200, but now the story nears 300! That's awesome. Thank you so much.  
> Okay, so if you read the last chapter when it first came out, you should go back and read it again. I made some major changes to it that impact the rest of the story. If you go back and everything looks the same, then you probably read it after the changes, so you're good :P

They used to do this in the old days, ever since John told Sherlock he had to watch a James Bond film one night. Most of the time, they kept a fair amount of physical distance between themselves, except on cases when crouching together was sometimes necessary. However, their nights laughing at movies or television shows were different. Then, for some unspoken reason, they allowed themselves to sit together on the sofa, legs sometimes brushing, sharing one of Mrs. Hudson’s old quilts. Sherlock feared the tension from their conversation and the reason why John was here would put a damper on the mood, but to his relief, as soon as he opened his mouth and mocked the host for some ridiculous game show, John started laughing.

John was sitting in the corner of the sofa, leaning on the armrest with the blanket up to his chest, snickering at the garbage on the screen. Sherlock was sitting only a few inches away. He could feel the heat of John’s muscular thigh next to his under the quilt. He was distinctly aware of this, and was trying to inch closer to John, slowly, so their legs would casually touch. Perhaps it wasn’t right of him, trying to touch John when he was in an argument with his wife, but Sherlock had no plans to go beyond touching his leg. He just wanted to make some contact, just the tiniest bit. He didn’t want to try anything with John tonight, not when he was upset, and not when his plan was in shambles.

That was another thing. Sherlock was trying not to look panicked. He thought he would have been able to take his sweet time courting John, but his social ineptitude led him to act like a stalker. _Fantastic._ He mentally groaned. He should have known John would have wanted answers, and not find all of the gestures flattering. The original roses seemed to be fine, but he supposed the repeated behavior was unsettling. He sat there feeling like a dolt. Why did he think this would have worked? John said he would get to the bottom of things, perhaps even call the police, if another gift came with no explanation. Sherlock was at a loss for what to do, and though he felt ready to love John, he wasn’t ready for any sort of confrontation, especially because he doubted his feelings were reciprocated. Speaking of which, he was shocked Mary didn’t put the pieces together and figure out it was Sherlock who gave John the whiskey.

Or did she?

John nudged his shoulder, startling him.

John raised an eyebrow. “You okay? You got all quiet. Did you get lost in your head?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I apologize,” he said simply, not offering an explanation. He looked at the screen. A commercial for some cleaning product was on.

“It’s okay,” John said casually, his attention going back to the commercial.

Sherlock carefully shifted his leg over a little bit more, but they still didn’t touch. Damn.

The commercial ended, and Gordon Ramsey’s _Kitchen Nightmares_ came on.

“Hey, look,” John pointed at the television, smirking, “it’s a man who’s a master at his craft yelling at people for being incompetent; it’s right up your alley!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but was smirking, too. _A master at his craft._ “Was that a compliment?” He took the opportunity to playfully nudge John’s knee with his.

“Maybe,” John said, knocking his knee.

As John’s head turned to watch the show, Sherlock’s didn’t remove his leg, and he enjoyed the warm press of their clothed knees and thighs. He was still happy over the compliment John gave him, wrapped in a lighthearted tease. He missed John’s praises and jokes. He knew he was clever, but John was the only person to truly appreciate that side of him. John’s praise sat in his heart, warmer than the thick quilt on top of him. Things felt relatively normal between them at the moment, and he released a long sigh of relief, his muscles relaxing and his mind forcibly ignoring the dilemma with his plan for now. At the moment, he wanted to enjoy a night with John, especially because they hadn’t done this in ages.

Sherlock allowed himself to sink into the cushions and chuckle at Gordon Ramsay gagging on disgusting restaurant food.

John hummed. “God, I could feel that you relaxed,” he said. “I knew you were tense earlier. Sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine now,” he assured. He thought that John was in a surprisingly good mood, considering the state he was in when he came to the flat. He looked at John. “Are _you_ okay?” he asked pointedly.

John’s mouth twisted to the side. “I mean, no,” he chuckled. He saw Sherlock frown and he cleared his throat, tension returning to his jaw. It was amazing to Sherlock that whenever John discussed Mary, he instantly looked older. “But crap telly is a nice distraction. I just, really don’t want to think about Mary right now,” he said, sounding tired, and bringing his hand up to his face to rub his eyes. His wedding ring looked dull, like it hadn’t been cleaned since John got it.

Sherlock thought of their first case, of Jennifer Wilson’s ring and her unhappy marriage. His eyes flickered back to the television. “Of course.” With the state of John’s wedding ring, and his willingness to at least entertain his suitor, Sherlock wondered again about the state of their marriage. Maybe they really weren’t okay. Did they only have sex in an attempt to salvage their relationship? He remembered the day of the case, the bite mark on John’s lip, and him saying that they didn’t have sex the previous night. The signs pointed to an unhappy marriage all around, but of course, that didn’t mean John wanted him instead.

But, if John and Mary divorced, he might move back in with Sherlock.

Gordon Ramsay’s shouting and John’s giggles broke him out of his train of thought.

John grabbed the remote and checked the television schedule. “Oh, it’s a marathon. You okay with watching this for a little while?”

“Sure,” Sherlock said, and he really didn’t mind.

John sat up and stretched. “I’m going to get a drink. Want anything?”

“No, thank you,” Sherlock shook his head.

John got up, and Sherlock’s body immediately missed the warmth of John’s thigh. Sherlock put more of the blanket on himself. He flexed his toes. His eyelids felt slightly heavy.

John came back with a glass of water and he placed it on the coffee table in front of them. He lifted the quilt and sat back on the sofa, but this time, he was closer to Sherlock. When he sat, his arm and side brushed Sherlock’s. “Oh, sorry,” John said, sitting up straight.

“It’s not an issue,” Sherlock mumbled, eyes on the screen, face warm.

John moved away, but only slightly, and the warm, solid weight of his shoulder and thigh remained pressed against Sherlock’s. He adjusted the blanket and stretched out his legs, feet under the coffee table.

Sherlock kept his breathing steady and quiet, but his pulse was galloping. If he turned his head, he was close enough to press a kiss to John’s hair, or mouth at his neck. He gulped. He could smell the musk of John’s cologne and feel his body move with each breath. Feeling John breathe against him was surreal, and his mind jumped to a fantasy before he could stop it. In an instant, he imagined lying in bed, John sprawled out on top of him, naked, and his chest rising and falling as he slept on Sherlock after sex.

Sherlock internally screamed at his brain, _STOP IT!_

Gordon Ramsay yelled on the television, “Are you fucking stupid?!”

_What convenient timing,_ he sighed petulantly.

“Why do people with no experience go into the restaurant business?” John asked, watching the show in disbelief.

“People are foolishly ambitious,” Sherlock muttered, getting his mind under control.

“I sort of feel bad for them.”

Sherlock shrugged, and his shoulder moved against John’s. Stupid idea. He drew his bottom lip between his teeth.

John only leaned forward, grabbed his glass and took a sip, and put it back on the table, settling back into the cushions with Sherlock. He didn’t seem bothered by their physical contact.

If John wasn’t bothered, then it would have only been suspicious for Sherlock to act out of the ordinary. He had to appear like he didn’t even notice how close they were. Now that they were watching a show they actually liked, it was less about laughing together at inane programs, and more about simply watching television, conversation falling away and being replaced with occasional chuckles. It was companionable--Sherlock could do this.

He focused on the television and let himself get wrapped up in the show, and before he knew it, two episodes passed by. When his mind wasn’t spiraling out of control, Sherlock did enjoy a bit of down time, and he thought there was no better way to spend it than with John. This was actually nice, he thought. He was watching something he actually sort of liked, Mrs. Hudson’s quilt was like a comforting, soft cocoon around his body, and there was John, beautiful John, relaxed next to him, his strong body radiating warmth onto his, and the enticing smell of his cologne was in Sherlock’s nostrils.

The proximity made his heart flutter, but somehow, being under a blanket with another person went from weird and anxiety-inducing to filling him with tranquility. With his failure of a plan and Mary purposefully pushed to the back of his mind, Sherlock felt a sort of peace that was rare nowadays. The heaviness in his eyelids was back, and the warmth of John and the quilt was slowly turning his limbs into pudding. He blinked hard. He hadn’t been sleeping well since he started his stupid plan, his anxiety keeping him up at night. Sherlock sat up a little, stifling a yawn.

John made some comment about the show that didn’t quite register, so Sherlock just made an interested sound in his throat. He felt foggy. His thoughts started to wander, and his mind conjured up another fantasy--this time, of him being sprawled on top of John for a nap. He remembered when they almost fell asleep on the stairs on John’s stag night and smiled.

“What’re you smiling about?” John asked, amused.

Sherlock blinked again. “Nothing really,” he mumbled, the words like molasses on his tongue. His nose scrunched up in annoyance. He wanted to get up and walk around to wake himself up, but he had the rare opportunity to be close to John, and he would have been an absolute fool to give that up. He felt another yawn building up in his mouth, and he resisted releasing it. His body subconsciously sought more comfort, though, and he pulled the plush quilt up to his neck and settled back into the cushions. The images on the screen began to blur. He couldn’t hold back a long, deep yawn.

Then, he heard John’s speak to him, voice fond and gravelly, “Sherlock, go to bed.”

Sherlock felt his cheek against something warm and firm, and he noticed his eyes were closed. He lifted his head with a small intake of breath, eyes opening, and realized to his horror that he dozed off on John’s shoulder. Humiliation crawled up his collar in a blush.

John’s eyes were sparkling and he was grinning brightly.

Sherlock grimaced and crossed his arms over his chest, looking at the television ( _Kitchen Nightmares_ was over; how long was he asleep?). He never reacted to embarrassment well, and falling asleep on John was a first. “I’m not tired,” he grumbled automatically, wishing he could disappear.

“Of course you’re not,” John said with a smile in his voice, and the expression on his face would have been beautiful to Sherlock if it hadn’t been in response to him _sleeping_ on his _shoulder._ John didn’t seem put off by it at all, though. Sherlock was in no state to analyze that. He was groggy. Once his body got a taste of sleep, it was going to try to pull him back under for a solid eight hours. He should have gotten up and gone to his room, but John was so warm…

“I’m not tired,” he insisted, eyes staring at the screen and fighting off drooping eyelids.

“Whatever you say,” John humored him. “Well, _I’m_ getting tired, so I’m going to take a shower.” He stood up and stretched his arms over his head, his jumper riding up and a glimpse of dark, golden hair trailing down his navel and beyond his belt buckle.

Sherlock’s cock twitched, and he had to stop himself from scolding it out loud.

John glanced down at him and laughed through his nose. “Go to bed.”

“You’re not my mother,” he muttered.

John just shrugged, got his duffle bag with his toothbrush and pajamas, and went into the bathroom.

Sherlock yawned. That was unexpected. He still felt embarrassed and wanted to go to bed, but it was cold without John, and the sofa was warm where his body had been. Sherlock pursed his lips. John wasn’t going to be out of the bathroom for at least fifteen minutes. Sherlock shimmied into John’s spot, enjoying the warmth. He pulled his knees up onto the cushions and curled into a ball, yawning into the blanket. _Five minutes,_ he told himself, and then he would go to bed.

 

_Sherlock found himself in a dark empty room, tied to a wooden chair, a rag stuffed into his mouth so far back it nearly choked him. A metal door opened, and it was Mary, in her wedding dress, large eyes cold without a trace of compassion. He tried to yell, but the gag effectively muffled his efforts. She walked to him, pulled out her gun, and pressed it against his forehead._

_Her eyes were hard as steel. “I told you to stop interfering. You couldn’t control yourself, could you?”_

_The gag threatened to make him vomit, and he started to choke._

_“I warned you.”_

_She fired her gun._

 

Sherlock jolted with a shout, sitting up so quickly and clumsily that he almost fell off the sofa. His heart was hammering, each hard beat rippling anxiety through his body.

“Sherlock!” John jumped up.

Sherlock’s head whipped around, his eyes wide and lips trembling. _It’s just John,_ his brain told him, _It’s just John._ The image of Mary’s soulless eyes and gun made him screw his eyes shut, and he hated himself for fearing that damned woman. His right hand was bunched around the quilt, knuckles white, and he was trembling. _Calm down._

John’s hand grasped his shoulder. “Sherlock,” he said comfortingly but steadily, “it was just a dream. Open your eyes.”

Sherlock felt humiliated for the second time that night, but this was worse. This wasn’t the first time he dreamt of Mary, but he never had to explain himself to anyone when he awoke alone in his bedroom. He hated appearing weak. He didn’t want to open his eyes, but keeping them closed would only make him look like a frightened child. He opened his eyes. The fire from the fireplace was long burnt out, but the television was still on. He didn’t want to look at John. His eyes flickered down to his hand, and released his grip on the quilt.

“Sorry,” he barely mumbled, his voice scratchy.

“It’s all right,” John said, squeezing his shoulder. “I’ve had my fair share of nightmares, it’s all fine.”

John’s nightmares were of war; Sherlock’s were of a middle-aged woman. Sherlock felt pathetic compared to him.

John let go of his shoulder. “Um, do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock shook his head immediately, but he noticed that John’s voice sounded drowsy through his concern. Wait, wasn’t John supposed to take a shower and go to bed? He looked over at John.

His features weren’t entirely clear, the only light source in the room coming from the flashing television screen, but Sherlock could see that his eyes were bleary, and the hair on the right side of his head, the side facing the sofa, was ruffled. John had been sleeping. The quilt covered his legs and part of his torso, but Sherlock could see that he was no longer wearing the wine-colored jumper, and was instead clad in a white T-shirt. He did take a shower, after all, and Sherlock must have fallen asleep again before John left the bathroom. John must have came back into the sitting room, saw Sherlock sleeping, and sat down with him anyway. Why didn’t John wake him up, and why didn’t he go up to his old room?

“You’re here,” he said dumbly.

Even in the darkness of the room, John looked confused. “Uh, yeah? Did you think I left the flat? Or, does this have to do with your dream?”

“No, no.” The fear from the nightmare was clinging to him, a chill at the base of his spine.

“Woah,” John frowned, “you’re shivering.”

“I’m not,” he denied, but he knew he was. He was glad the room was dark, because he suspected his face was red. The nightmare left him raw, and this was beginning to be too much.

“C’mere,” John whispered, and without warning, he pulled Sherlock into an embrace.

Sherlock froze.

“I know we don’t do this,” John acknowledged a little awkwardly, “but I know what it’s like.” His mouth was near Sherlock’s ear, breath hot on his skin. His strong arms were wrapped around his shoulders.

Sherlock wanted to hug back, but his arms felt like stone. _No!_ his mind screamed. If he hugged back, then that would be a sign of him being able to feel things. This could help him in the future. He needed to get over himself and reciprocate. He forced his arms to moved and he hugged John around the middle, and could have (but didn’t, thankfully) whimper at the foreign feeling of having his only love, solid and real, in his arms. He wanted to hold him closer, bring him to his chest and never let go. His heart thumped heavily, and he thought he could feel himself shaking more, but it wasn’t from his dream this time. _John._

John must have misinterpreted the reason for his trembling, though, because he held Sherlock tighter. “It’s all right,” he murmured softly into his ear.

Sherlock bit his wobbling lip, and concluded that John must get physically affectionate when sleepy. How endearing, and unexpected. He hadn’t ever hugged John before; his arms awkwardly stayed by his sides at the wedding, caught off guard and surrounded by people at the event that legally tied John to _her_. This was overwhelming. This was _glorious._ He wanted this forever. The phantom sensation of the barrel of Mary’s gun against his forehead made his pulse spike. What if he really couldn’t have this? What if Mary ended things before he even had a chance to reveal himself to John?

“Hey,” John whispered, truly sounding concerned, “it’s okay, Sherlock. What the hell scared you so much?”

He was glad their hug hid his face. “I dreamt someone captured me,” he said hoarsely, “and sh--they shot me in the forehead.”

“Jesus,” John cursed into the loose curls by his ear, “why’d you dream of that?”

“I don’t know.” He wanted to hug John tighter, but was afraid. He swallowed. He really did have to give up the facade soon, because of John’s curiosity, and the threat of Mary. If she hadn’t figured it out already, it was only a matter of time. He sighed shakily.

John pulled back, but kept his arms around Sherlock. In the darkness of the flat, his eyes looked black. “It was just a dream.”

It wasn’t though. The danger of Mary was real. “It’s...not an impossible scenario.”

“Some fucker would have to get through me to do that to you,” he said, half joking, half earnest.

But that wasn’t true. Mary shot him, and John went back to her. Sherlock removed his arms from John’s middle, feeling dejected. He didn’t say anything.

John looked down at his lap. “You should get to bed.”

“I’m not going back to sleep,” he said immediately. “Not tonight.”

“Sherlock, I don’t think you’ll have the same dream again,” John reasoned.

He wasn’t in the mood to listen to reason. “I’m not going to sleep,” he insisted.

John sighed. “Okay, if that’s what you want.”

Curiosity getting the better of him, Sherlock asked, “Why were you sleeping here? Why didn’t you go to your old room?”

A bright flash from a commercial revealed John’s eyes widening and his lips parting. “I, erm, well I was really tired and didn’t feel like climbing the stairs. The quilt was right here, and it’s comfortable, so,” he finished lamely.

_He’s lying._ Did...John want to sleep next to him? Sherlock was so tired. His mind was incapable of processing emotions for now. “I see,” he said simply. He ran a hand through his curls. “Thank you, John. I think I’m going to my room now.”

“Okay. I’m not really tired anymore, so I think I’m going to watch more telly for a while. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight,” he said, and got off the sofa. He went into his bedroom, closing the door behind him with a sigh. The clock on the bedside table said that it was 2:45. He climbed under the covers, but despite his lingering fatigue, he couldn’t fall asleep again. At 3:00, he heard John turn off the television and go upstairs. Sherlock curled onto his side. He wanted to go upstairs and lie with John. He wanted Mary out of his life. He wanted John to see how much he wanted him. He wanted to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well at least they hugged :P  
> You know, at least part of season 4 will have aired by the time this updates :O


	8. The End of the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock realizes he's cornered, and the only thing he can do is confess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeyyyyy thank you for over 300 kudos!!!  
> A note about this story: the first episode of season 4 has now aired. This story will not be affected by it. I'm going to continue to write it as I was with no modifications to the plot or characterizations. Consider this non-canon compliant, at this point.

Sherlock awoke to the sound of water running from the bathroom sink. He opened his eyes, momentarily confused, until he remembered John. Sherlock sat up in his bed, his mind fuzzy and eyes hurting from a night of poor sleep. He hadn’t meant to sleep at all, but it was hard to stay awake when he was just lying in bed with nothing to do. At least he didn’t dream of her again. He sat on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs off the side and bringing his bare feet to the floor. After their hug and somewhat embarrassing conversation (embarrassing for him, at least), he wasn’t sure what to say to John, and thought about staying in his room until John left. He shook his head. No, he should go say goodbye to John. It was the polite thing to do. He stood up and walked towards the bathroom. He could see John’s silhouette standing by the sink through the opaque glass door, and he knocked lightly on it.

“Are you decent?” he asked, but he knew the answer already. He would have been able to see if John were undressed through the door, even though the sight would have been a bit blurry. He would steal glances of John when he would come out of the shower, although he was never able to see too much because of the material on the door. He would feel guilty afterwards.

“Yeah,” John responded, his words sounding a little garbled.

Sherlock opened the door and saw John brushing his teeth, dressed in jeans and a dark green jumper, a different outfit from last night. He must have been getting ready to leave. Sherlock thought of how they would share mornings getting ready in the bathroom together, and pushed away the memories. He grabbed his own toothbrush, squeezed out toothpaste, and started brushing his teeth, enjoying the domesticity of this small moment. Sherlock was trying not to look at John in the mirror, knowing every movement of his eyes would be seen by John.

John spit in the sink and rinsed his mouth out. “Good morning,” he said once his mouth was free.

Sherlock briefly raised his eyebrows at him in acknowledgement, using the opportunity to glance at John through the mirror. John didn’t shave, and he had light stubble on his jaw. Sherlock wanted to mouth at his skin, feel the prickly hairs against his mouth until his lips were raw. He looked away and spit into the sink.

“Um, thanks again for letting me stay,” John said.

Sherlock rinsed his mouth out and shook his head. “It’s not a problem,” he said, turning to look at John fully.

John looked tired, the lines around his eyes more pronounced and his stance somewhat strained, indicating back pain, like he didn’t sleep well after he woke up with Sherlock.

He cleared his throat lightly. “If you need to stay again, you’re more than welcome.”

John nodded, looking away. “Yeah. Yeah, um, thanks. We’ll see.”

Sherlock nodded, too. His eyes were drawn to John’s stubble again. John’s moustache was hideous, but Sherlock wondered how he would look with a beard.

He must have been staring too long, because John looked back at him and raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“You didn’t bring a razor?” he blurted out.

“Oh,” John rubbed his stubbled jaw. “No. I sort of packed in a hurry.”

“Ah,” he said uncomfortably.

John shrugged it off. “Oh well. My patients will have to deal with my unshaven face.”

“I prefer my doctors clean shaven,” he said, memories of the early days after his return surfacing.

John must have remembered because he snorted. “So you’ve said. Well, I’ve got to go to work.” The corner of his mouth pulled into a small smirk. “I guess I’ll see if this bloke keeps it up for today, eh?”

The blood drained from Sherlock’s face. He didn’t have anything planned for today! _What do I do?_

“Sherlock?” John’s eyebrows knitted together. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he said quickly. “You have to go to work, yes? Well, you should be on your way,” he handed John his toothbrush and grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him around, and led him out of the bathroom. “Don’t want to be late.”

“Umm,” John looked at him in confusion. “Okay…”

Sherlock led him into the sitting room, anxiety tingling in his chest.

John put on his shoes and jacket and picked up his duffle bag, a puzzled frown fixed on his face. “Right. Well, bye, then.”

“Goodbye, John,” he smiled in what he suspected was a manic manner.

John nodded slowly, a skeptical look in his eyes, and left the flat.

Sherlock let out a deep breath, but it did nothing to quell his nerves. He paced the flat, running his fingers through his hair. He didn’t necessarily have to send John something today, but he thought it would have been suspicious that the morning after they spent a night together, the secret admirer just so happened to skip sending something today. What was the use in trying to be discreet anymore, though? John was going to find out it was him. Not sending something would be postponing the inevitable. Of course, he planned on telling John eventually, but with a confrontation looming, with the possibility of rejection so close, he was freezing up. He thought he would have more time. He thought he’d have more time to work up the nerve to do this. He hated his cowardice.

Sherlock put his face in his hands, groaning quietly. He was so stupid. On top of everything else, dragging this out was making John unhappy. He had wanted John to grow apart from Mary and choose him, but he didn’t like that their argument had upset John so much that he felt the need to leave his own home. (No. Baker Street was his home.)

He was stuck, and felt like the walls were closing in on him. Sherlock could not send anything else without leading to him being revealed, so there was no way he could try to make John fall for his suitor more. If John didn’t want him now, then that was it--he wouldn’t ever want him. In addition, he didn’t know how much longer he would have been able to keep this up without Mary catching on and telling John anyway. Sherlock’s throat tightened. Why did he think this would work? Stupid Mummy. This was her fault.

No, it wasn’t. This was his fault, and his alone. He could see it: John’s look of disgust and disappointment when he found out it was Sherlock. He could imagine Mary’s smug face when John would tell her about it, and how he never wanted to talk to Sherlock again. But, no, she wouldn’t get to be smug. Her lie would be revealed. What an unpleasant situation. His heart clenched. He just wanted John to love him.

Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath. He had to end this charade. He had to beat Mary to the punch. If nothing else, he could at least tell John the truth about her. Would John be angry at him for keeping that a secret? Most likely. If John were going to be upset with him anyway about the pseudo-courting, then he might as well end their friendship with a bang.

He grimaced. That thought was terrible. To make things worse, John would most likely divorce Mary from finding out the truth, _and_ want to end his friendship with Sherlock, which would leave him with no spouse and no best friend. John did not have friends--neither of them really did apart from each other. Telling the truth would involve destroying John’s primary social relationships.

Sherlock stopped pacing, horror dropping into the pit of his stomach like a ton of bricks. This was going to make John miserable on all counts. An image of John living alone invaded his brain. He pictured John sliding back into the depressive state he was in before they met (Sherlock had read John’s early blog posts, and the sheer hopelessness in the tone of his posts was all he needed to deduce his mental state. They never talked about it because they rarely talked about their pasts, and Sherlock could not bear to think about John like that). The feeling in his gut rose like vomit up his esophagus, nearly making Sherlock choke. He was so _selfish!_ How could he do this to John? How could he be so shortsighted? John was going to be upset and alone and it was because of his actions. He wasn’t responsible for Mary’s lie, but if he had been able to take control over his feelings, then John could have been left with a friend after it all blew over. Suddenly, his eyes were stinging, and he wiped his tears away roughly.

“I’m sorry, John,” he whispered to the empty room.

He truly wasn’t cut out to be in a relationship. Being in a relationship meant being considerate and doing everything possible to make the other happy, and he did the exact opposite. John was right about him. John was always right.

Sherlock had to take responsibility for his actions. He remembered John saying that if he were to meet his admirer, it would have to be in a public place for safety reasons. He could do that. If they met in a public place, maybe John would postpone punching him in the face (not that being in public stopped John from attacking him when Sherlock came back, but he thought that was a different story entirely). Ignoring the stinging of his eyes and the heaviness of his heartbeats, he got his laptop and typed out a small note: _If you want to know who I am, meet me at Regent's Park at 5:30._ He printed it out. He supposed it would be suspicious to John that his suitor would want to meet the day after he told Sherlock that he would call the police if his activity continued, but there wasn’t any point in pretending anymore.

At least he got to hug John before their relationship ended.

Sherlock decided that he would deliver the note himself, if John were going to find out it was him today anyway. It was still early in the morning, though, and he wanted to wait towards the end of John’s shift at 5. He spent most of the day failing to occupy himself, a ball of dread lodged in his chest. He felt so jumpy that he didn’t dare attempt to eat. He was so desperate for a distraction that he actually spent two hours cleaning the flat. If Mrs. Hudson knew, he was sure she would faint from shock. Speaking of her, Sherlock had a desire to vent to Mrs. Hudson about his troubles, but decided against it. If John rejected him, then he would have to tell Mrs. Hudson about it later, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to do that.

About 4:30, he took a ride in a cab to John’s clinic. He entered and handed the note to the receptionist, his palms sweating.

“Yes, sir,” she said, taking the note. She squinted at him. “Weren’t you here a few days ago? Do you need further medical assistance?”

“No,” he said quickly, not wanting John to hear him. “I’m fine. Just give that note to him.” He left the clinic and went to the park, sitting down on a bench close to the entrance. He put his hands in his pockets, the March wind chilly and probably whipping his hair around. He didn’t think he was ever this nervous, not even when he went to meet Moriarty on the rooftop, and not even when he tried to surprise John with his return at the restaurant. He bitterly thought, for what must have been the thousandth time, that if Mary hadn’t entered John’s life while he was gone, then he could have returned to a happy life with John. He reminded himself, however, that if he had let John in, maybe he wouldn’t have committed himself to Mary. Maybe. He really didn’t know. No use in thinking of that. He couldn’t change the past.

Even if he wasn’t suitable for a relationship with his lack of consideration for John, he did want John to know how much he loved him. Sherlock suspected that Mary didn’t love him, at least not in a healthy way. Moreover, John didn’t seem to think he was loved or be used to affection; receiving a simple bouquet of roses made him, a 42 year-old man, blush. Sherlock’s heart ached. John deserved to be loved, and know it. Maybe he didn’t deserve John, but Mary didn’t, either. Maybe down the road, after all this is behind him, John could find someone who could properly care for him. Sherlock wanted that for John.

He checked his phone. 5:23. Sherlock sighed shakily, bouncing his leg nervously. He wished John were here so they could just get this over with.

Feeling a small rush of boldness, he sent a text to Mary: _Our little game is over._ He might as well tell her off. He had nothing to lose.

She responded, **What are you talking about?**

His blood boiled with resentment. _I’m telling him the truth about you and you can’t stop me. You can’t blackmail me anymore. I’m telling him everything._

If nothing else, it would feel good to have Mary and her little schemes out of his life forever. He pushed away the memory of his nightmare, refusing to acknowledge the fear in his veins. He had to tell John.

**You fucking bastard!**

Sherlock smirked, feeling devious, and sent back an emoji of a smiley face. After all of the nonsense she put him through, he thought he deserved to be petty

Sherlock put away his phone and looked around for John. It was a Friday afternoon after the school day ended, so there were some kids, mainly teens, walking through the park with their backpacks and annoying chatter. He felt ridiculous, waiting here on the bench for his love to arrive like some lovesick protagonist in an afternoon soap opera. Mrs. Hudson liked that kind of bile.

This train of thought stopped when his eyes landed on John.

John was about ten feet away from him, holding the note in his hands, looking around with apprehension. He looked to his left and turned away, his back now facing Sherlock.

Sherlock gulped. This was it. He got up from the bench, his knees feeling like jelly and chills rolling down his spine, and walked to John. The sound of his pounding heart thundered in his ears. It was winter, but he was sweating under his coat. Did being in love make normal people feel deathly ill?

Sherlock was going to reach out and tap him on the shoulder, but then John turned around.

“Sherlock,” he said in surprise, eyebrows rising on his forehead, “what are you doing here?”

_Oh god. Seriously?_ Sherlock’s eyes flickered down to the note in John’s hand, and then back to his face, subconsciously biting his lip. He found himself speechless. He stared at John, silently pleading for him to catch on.

John’s brow furrowed, and he looked at the note, and then at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded towards the note.

The moment John’s brain made the connection was visible. His mouth opened, the furrow in his brow smoothed out and his eyes grew huge, his face turned white as snow, and fingers clenched around the paper. “Oh my god,” he said breathlessly.

Sherlock clasped his trembling hands behind his back. “Hi, John,” he rasped.

John looked down at the note and then up at Sherlock again, almost like his brain was having difficulty accepting the connection. He was breathing out of his mouth. “You…”

Sherlock felt like he was going to vomit. He looked down. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He couldn’t look at John’s face any longer. He felt a flush of shame on his cheeks.

For a moment, there was only the sound of John’s breathing and the white noise of people talking in the distance. Someone walked by them, but neither noticed, completely absorbed in their own world.

“W-why?” John asked, a tremor in his voice. “Why are you sorry?”

Sherlock cautiously looked up at John from under his lashes. There were no signs of anger or disgust on his face. He genuinely appeared to be shocked. That made sense, though. He didn’t think Sherlock was capable of doing what he did. “I’m sorry for doing this, and for what I’m about to tell you.”

John shook his head, incredulous. “I don’t...What?”

He averted his gaze, looking at the note crumpled in John’s hand instead of his face. “I need to tell you something about Mary.”

“Mary? What’s...Sherlock…” From Sherlock’s peripheral vision, he saw John look around quickly, and then he gave a sharp, exasperated sigh. “Can we have this conversation somewhere else?”

He lifted his head. Of course. This was not an ideal place for a serious conversation. “That would probably be for the best. Where should we--?”

“Baker Street,” John said weakly, and his tone fit with the winded expression on his face. “We need to have a long talk. We’re not doing it here or in a cab,” he said firmly.

Sherlock felt numb. “Okay. Let’s fetch a cab.”

They left the park in loaded silence and hailed a cab, and Sherlock spent the ride staring out the window, trying not to tear up. What had he expected, for John to open his arms and embrace Sherlock in the middle of the park? No, but the almost non-response felt worse than outright rejection in a way. He didn’t let himself think. He couldn’t lose his composure. He couldn’t feel right now, and he certainly couldn’t look at John.

Not thinking worked, because before he knew it, they were at Baker Street. He kept his eyes straight ahead and unlocked the door, going up the stairs to his flat with rigid, robotic movements. It felt like someone was repeatedly sticking a pin into his heart. When he got inside of the flat, he turned around to face John.

John shut the door behind him and leaned against it, note still in his hands, looking like he had seen a ghost.

Sherlock stood there, waiting for John to speak and trying not to dry-heave. His knees were weak and most likely shaking. The silence was suffocating.

John’s chest was heaving, and he shook his head slowly, looking down at the floor. “I can’t believe...” he started, but let the sentence trail off.

This was one of the worst moments of Sherlock’s life. He couldn’t say anything even if he tried. It felt like someone glued his mouth shut.

John exhaled slowly. “I mean, it makes sense now that I think about it,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed and found his voice. “It does?” His voice sounded like shattered glass.

John’s gobsmacked expression began to change. His eyes went from large and surprised to darker and...softer? “It does,” he said. “With how you acted today, and how vague you were when I talked to you about this…” He stood up straight, looking at the note one last time. “You typed it so I wouldn’t recognize your handwriting.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched into a grin for a millisecond. Clever John. “Yes.”

“Smart.” He folded the piece of paper and put it in his jacket pocket, looking at Sherlock straight in the eyes. “I think I’m fucking this up.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

John licked his lips, his anxiety palpable. “I didn’t exactly react in a positive way, did I?”

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and shrugged sullenly. “You don’t have to pretend to feel happy,” he said quietly, woodenly. He didn’t want John to pretend or pity him for his unrequited feelings.

John’s eyes filled with pain, the corners crinkling as his mouth opened in a frown, “Christ, that’s what I mean. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I was just so surprised; it felt like the rug had been pulled out from under me. I’m giving you the wrong impression.”

He felt so confused that he was starting to get annoyed. “What are you talking about? Tell me, John.”

John closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if gathering strength, and opened them. He looked determined. “Sherlock, just because I wasn’t expecting this, doesn’t mean I don’t want it.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly, and the numbness vanished and hope replaced the cold anxiety in his chest. “What?”

John’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Just to be clear, this isn’t a trick?”

“No!” he exclaimed. “Of course it’s not a trick.”

John looked torn between skeptical and hopeful. “You--actually wanted to send me flowers, because--for, um...” He squinted. “Romantic reasons?” he asked with disbelief.

Sherlock felt so sick with anxiety that he snapped. “Yes!” he burst out, waving his arms in the air, which must have made him look like a cartoon character. After all of this, John _still_ doubted him. He wanted to scream. “For god’s sake, John, yes! What’s it going to take to convince you that I love you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we got a cheesy love confession :P I figured we needed some cheese after Sunday, and in preparation for this Sunday...


	9. Transparency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for the kudos!  
> So, I've been a little down the past couple days, and I hope it hasn't affected the quality of my writing. I hope you like this chapter.

Sherlock’s mouth snapped closed as soon as those words left his lips, the exasperation he just felt vanishing and nausea rolling through his stomach, pinpricks of anxiety jabbing his chest. His lips trembled. He expected John to look shocked, but he didn’t.

Instead, the tension in John’s muscles visibly disappeared, almost like he had been a puppet and someone finally cut his strings, his knees almost buckling. He took three unsteady steps towards Sherlock and firmly wrapped his arms around him, warm hand on his neck and his other arm wrapped around his back.

Sherlock couldn’t hold back a small gasp, his arms frozen by his side, the warmth of John’s body overwhelming him. John was hugging him. He said he loved John and his response was a hug. John wasn’t disgusted. He wasn’t letting him down gently. He heard those three words and embraced him. That had to mean something, right? Something good? It had to be good. At least he thought so. It felt like his brain was made of Styrofoam and his knees were trembling in earnest now.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John said thickly by his ear, “I’m sorry for doubting you.”

Sherlock couldn’t say anything if he tried. He could only think, _John, John, John._ His skin burned where John’s hand was wrapped around the back of his neck.

John pulled back from the hug enough so they could look at each other. His eyes were shining with unshed tears. That sight alone nearly tore Sherlock’s heart out. John swallowed. “And I’m sorry for acting like a dick,” he said hoarsely. His eyes flickered downwards, and then back up to Sherlock’s. “Let me ask you something.” His lips pulled down in a firm frown. “Did you do this because of what I said to you?” His arms started to fall away from Sherlock’s body, but Sherlock didn’t want the hug to end.

He grasped John’s forearms, but didn’t have the courage to put John’s arms back around him, so he stood there, mute and foolish.

John looked at Sherlock’s hands holding his arms, his eyebrows raised. “Um, okay. Sherlock, you didn’t answer me.”

Sherlock swallowed, trying to bring back moisture into his dry mouth. He didn’t know what to do with John’s arms, but he didn’t want to let go. He didn’t know what to think. “Can you repeat the question?” he asked, voice scratchy.

John sighed. He opened his mouth to answer, but his eyes flickered down to Sherlock’s hands around his arms again. John removed his arms from his grip, and instead took Sherlock’s hands in his own.

Sherlock wished his knees would stop trembling. He was sure his palms were sweating. _Unattractive._

John didn’t meet his gaze. “What I said to you in this flat, about you not--being cut out for a relationship. That hurt you, didn’t it?”

Sherlock never felt so vulnerable. It was pure agony. He couldn’t lie, though. “Yes,” he said meekly.

John looked up at him, eyes wet again. “I’m sorry, and you did this to prove me wrong, didn’t you? To prove what a fucking arse I am?”

Sherlock wanted to squeeze John’s hands. “I...I wanted to prove myself capable of being in a relationship, yes, but not to prove you’re an arse.”

John shook his head, eyebrows knitting together and his eyes shining brighter. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock.” He squeezed his hands, making Sherlock’s already-galloping heart skip a beat. “I’m sorry. I was wrong, and I should have seen it before.” He started to sound angry. “It shouldn’t have taken you orchestrating a whole bloody charade just for me to see that you care.”

“I gave you mixed signals in the past,” Sherlock said. He didn’t want John to be upset with himself. He wasn’t angry with John for what he said at all anymore. He couldn’t bring himself to.

“Still, you--fuck,” he said emphatically. His face was so open, like a child’s, self-loathing behind the tears in his eyes. “And I’m _still_ fucking this up. I’m leaving you hanging because I can’t get my head out of my arse.”

“John--”

“I love you,” he said firmly.

Sherlock squeezed John’s hands so tightly it had to hurt, his mouth opening and throat tightening. He was sweating profusely. Was he going to pass out?

John took a small step forward so their bodies were flush against one another. “You sent me those things to make me happy.”

“I did,” he said shakily. “It was part of a plan, but I wanted you to like it.”

John exhaled sharply out his mouth, sounding like he was going to cry, but the tears in his eyes did not leak. “I did like it,” he whispered. “Very, very much.” He licked his lips. “Thank you.”

Sherlock’s heart clenched. “You don’t have to thank me. I wanted to make you happy.”

"You did," he murmured, tone warm like honey. "No one's ever done that for me before. Send me stuff. It was nice. You." His ears turned rosy. "You made me feel--wanted, in a way Mary never has."

Sherlock's thumb stroked over the top of John's hand, his suspicions confirmed. He wanted to yell at Mary for making John feel unwanted and unloved. He didn't deserve that. "You deserve to feel wanted," he said seriously. "I want you to feel loved."

John's mouth opened with a pant, "Fucking hell, Sherlock. I really can't believe I doubted you. You're the most caring man I ever met."

Sherlock made a sound of denial in his throat, but it was weak. He felt like he was glowing, and he wanted to kiss John. He looked at his pink lips. He could feel John’s body heat, and if he moved his head down a little, the tips of their noses would have touched. John loved him. John loved him. John loved him. People kissed when they loved each other, right? John must have wanted to kiss him. Right? Despite his niggling doubts, felt his head tilt down on its own accord.

John’s head tilted up, their eyes slid closed, and Sherlock felt the softest touch of lips against his. There was no movement, no tongues or biting, just the gentle, warm, petal-soft pressure of John’s lips. Sherlock felt like he couldn’t breathe, his face on fire. John loved him. John was kissing him. His plan wasn’t a disaster. It worked out. Things actually worked out for him. He couldn’t remember the last time that happened, and nothing as good as this ever happened in his life before.

John moved his face back a centimeter, ending the small kiss with an even smaller sound of their lips parting.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, breath hot on his face.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered back, and without his brain's permission, he leaned forward and placed his lips on John's again.

John didn't mind at all. He returned the pressure, but still kept the kiss light.

Sherlock pulled back this time, and he felt utterly love struck. This was so much to process. He wanted to give John more, but he needed time to calm down. He needed--he needed to tell John about Mary! How could he have forgotten? “John!”

“What?” he asked, growing concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Mary, I need to tell you,” he said intensely.

“Oh, yeah.” John didn’t sound terribly interested. “I forgot. What is it?”

He gave John’s hands a reassuring squeeze. Their faces were so close it was dizzying, but he had to focus. This wasn’t going to be easy. He spoke quickly, “She lied to you, John, about her pregnancy. She was never pregnant. She faked the entire thing, even the miscarriage, because at that point, she was cornered.”

John ducked his head with a long sigh. “So it’s true,” he said quietly.

Sherlock blinked. “What?”

John looked at him with far less sadness and devastation than he had anticipated. He certainly seemed disappointed, but that was about it. “I suspected something was going on. She faked it well, but, I’m a doctor, for fuck’s sake. I could tell things were off. She said she had a miscarriage right around the time I was going to confront her.” He let go of Sherlock’s hands. His expression darkened, suddenly looking much older than he did mere seconds ago. “Things haven’t been the same between us since,” he cleared his throat, “you know.”

Sherlock did. He touched where the scar from the bullet wound was on his ribcage. “You...are taking this well,” he observed.

John laughed bitterly. “That’s a sign, isn’t it, of how much my marriage fell apart.” He rubbed his eyes. “I feel desensitized to her bullshit. I feel like a fool for falling to her, to be honest.”

Sherlock didn’t know what sort of response was appropriate, but on the inside, he was a little pleased. Only a little, though. The fact that John was reacting this way told him all he needed to know about their marriage. It was over, and as much as he was glad, he didn’t enjoy John’s sadness. “I’m sorry,” he said simply.

John shook his head, removing his hand from his eyes. “Don’t be.” His lips compressed. “I’m sorry for going back to her, after she shot you.”

Sherlock shook his head. John loved him, and that was all that mattered. “It’s in the past, John.” He hesitated. “She called me.”

John instantly looked angry, but Sherlock knew it wasn’t directed at him. “When?”

“The day after I walked in.”

“And what did she say?” he crossed his arms.

“She said she knew I love you, and if I interfered with your marriage more, she would tell you, thus ruining our friendship.”

John snarled, “Are you fucking serious?”

“I am,” he said gravely.

“She told me the same thing.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “What?”

“She--I denied it, because I felt like it was none of her bloody business, but she knows how I feel about you, and said if I got too close to you, she’d tell you how I feel and that you wouldn’t want to stay friends because you’re incapable of romance.” He groaned and put his head in his hands. “Oh god, I think that’s where my thought process came from. She got inside my head.” He lifted his head, a look of realization dawning on his face. “I doubted you and insulted you because she got inside my head.” He sounded as ashamed as he looked.

He couldn’t exactly blame John for being manipulated by Mary. She was cunning, and since they were in an intimate relationship, she had ample opportunities to play with his mind. His poor John. “She tried to tear us apart,” Sherlock said somberly.

“And it damn near worked.”

They stood there, wrapped up in their own heads about Mary.

Suddenly, Sherlock remembered the day when they were out on a case, and John had the mark on his lips. “John, do you remember our last case, when we got in an argument?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Have you had sex with Mary since I walked in?” he blurted out.

John’s expression somehow turned darker. “No,” he muttered. “She tried, though.”

“But, there was a mark on your lip, it looked like a sign of struggle.” His heart stopped. “John, did she--?”

“No,” he said sternly. “No, she didn’t force me into anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. She was in the mood, I wasn’t, she grabbed me by the wrist and kissed me hard, and I pushed her away and told her that I didn’t want to do it. She got pissed and didn’t talk to me for the rest of the night. We’ve been fighting on and off for weeks.”

Sherlock sighed in relief. Thank god. If she physically hurt John in any way, she would have had to face his fury.

John sighed tiredly. “I think we’ve been done for a long time.” He flexed his left hand, looking at his wedding ring in disgust. “What a waste.”

He shifted his feet uncomfortably. “John, if you and Mary have been fighting, why were you two, you know,” he coughed delicately.

John cleared his throat, blushing lightly. “I tried to see if any of that old spark was there. I put on stupid cheesy music and everything, tried to be romantic. It didn’t work at all. It was--perfunctory.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “You two seemed fine,” he mumbled.

“Sherlock, are you jealous?” he asked incredulously.

He shrugged.

Without warning, John wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled Sherlock’s body to his. He grinned softly. “Didn’t I just say I loved you?”

He didn’t realize how strong John’s arms were. _Oh._ This felt good. The embrace felt intimate and protective, and Sherlock wanted to bury his face into John’s neck and be held. But, John had a point. “You did,” he conceded. “I’m sorry, I suppose it’s still not quite sinking in.”

John’s grin only widened. “Yeah, same with me.”

Sherlock felt stupid with his arms by his side as John was holding him, so he tentatively brought his arms up so his hands were placed on John’s broad shoulders.

John gazed up at him. “Why did it take us this long?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock murmured. His heart was calming down, and he felt his muscles gradually relax in John’s arms. John loved him, and this was real. He wasn’t being fooled. “John, I am sorry about your marriage. I love you, but I never wanted you unhappy.”

John’s gaze was so fond it hurt. “I know,” he said, voice dripping with affection. “I know. You’ve been so good to me," he reached up for a moment to caress his cheek tenderly, "planning my wedding, when you felt this way."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered close, the feather-light feel of John's fingers on his cheek sweeter than he could have ever imagined.

John brought his hand back to Sherlock's waist. "Um, how long have you felt this way?”

Sherlock felt warmth slowly budding in his abdomen. “A long time,” he said softly.

“Yeah, me too.” His arms tightened around his waist. “I hate that we lost so much time.”

They spent years dancing around each other, but Sherlock thought it was worth it if he could spend even a single day with John as a lover. “We have more time ahead of us.” Wait. Was he assuming? “Yes?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” John breathed out. “After what a prick I’ve been, you want me?”

“Yes!” Sherlock exclaimed, drawing a startled laugh from John. Sherlock flushed. “Well, yes, I do. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Sherlock. Listen, I’m done with her. I think I loved her once, but she’s lied too many times for it to ever work out.” A flash of guilt went through his eyes. “And she hurt you.”

“John--”

“And,” he interrupted, “I basically cheated on her with you.”

“I’m not sure if accepting my deliveries counted as cheating.”

“It did, though. I went to meet you today. I wanted something was another person. It might as well have been cheating.” The guilt increased. “She’s no saint, but neither am I.”

“And neither am I,” Sherlock told him. “We’re all human, John. If you’re unhappy with her, then you have every right to leave her.”

He didn’t look convinced. “But, I lied about that bottle of scotch--”

“Forgive me, John, but I believe her lies outweigh yours.”

John stared at him, and slowly the guilt started to fade and he smirked. “I guess you’re right. I think, I just want to end it with her and put that part of my life behind me.” His voice dropped in tone and volume, “And start a new chapter with you.”

Sherlock’s lip wobbled. “Yes.”

Then they were kissing again, neither sure who initiated it. Their lips were pressed together firmly, and the butterflies in Sherlock’s stomach fluttered happily. John’s lips moved slowly against his, sensually, and Sherlock caught on that he should move his lips, too. As soon as he started to move his lips with John’s, the kiss instantly felt better. John opened his mouth slightly to deepen the kiss. John’s mouth was so warm, and Sherlock’s lips gently closed over John’s upper lip, and a small, deep sound came from his throat when John sucked his bottom lip--softly, though, softly enough that it made Sherlock want to cry. He couldn’t contain himself and kissed John harder, the grip on his shoulders tightening.

John broke their kiss, looked at him with dazed, hooded eyes, and kissed him again, harder this time. He pulled Sherlock’s body so they were completely pressed against one another, and Sherlock’s crotch touched John’s lower abdomen. The first touch of John’s tongue against the seam of his lips made his breath hitch in surprised, and John licked into his mouth, his tongue hot and the sensation more arousing than Sherlock could have ever imagined. Unlike in the romance movies that Mrs. Hudson forced him to watch with her, though, John did not start sucking his tongue or anything of the sort; his tongue left his mouth, and he went back to open-mouthed, hard kisses, and Sherlock thought he preferred that, his cock twitching with interest. His cheeks heated up and he wrapped his arms around John’s neck, sighing happily into the kiss. Each hot, wet press of John’s lips against his made him gradually harden, and he felt dizzy with bliss. They stood in the sitting room kissing for long, glorious minutes, the quiet flat echoing with the sounds of their lips breaking apart and sliding back together. They were pressing wet, sloppy kisses on each other's mouths, John's hands tightening around his narrow waist, a delicious, low groan coming from his throat and sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine.

Then, John started giggling, and Sherlock let out a confused grunt.

“I’m sorry,” John broke their kiss, trying to hold back his laughter. “I’m not laughing at you, it’s just.” The corners of his eyes crinkled and he giggled harder. “I can’t believe I thought you were a stalker.”

Sherlock barked out a laugh, and then they were clutching each other and giggling, the final remnants of the tension from the past week disappearing. It was truly a ridiculous situation.

John got control of his laughter, a smile lighting up his face. “Hey, Sherlock, where’d you get the idea to send flowers and all? I loved it, but, uh, it was a little cliche for you.”

Sherlock would have become embarrassed, but John loved him, so he could admit to this. “I may have gotten some outdated advice on romance.”

“How outdated?”

“My mother.”

They stared at each other blankly for a second and burst into more laughter.

“You’re ridiculous,” John rested his head against Sherlock’s collarbone, shoulders shaking with laughter. “God, you’re sweet.”

Sherlock’s cheeks turned bright pink. “I’m not sweet; I’m socially inept.”

John tilted his head up, a dreamy look on his face. “Hm, nope. Just sweet.” He planted a kiss on Sherlock’s chin. He licked his lips. “We still have our coats on," he said randomly.

“Oh, right,” Sherlock removed his arms from John’s neck and unbuttoned his coat.

John took his arms from his waist and unzipped his jacket. “After all,” he said casually, “it’d be a bit hard to touch you if you’ve got all those layers on.”

Sherlock dropped his coat on the floor.

John was smirking and bit his lip. “I mean, if you’re up to it. But you look like it,” his eyes dropped to his groin.

Sherlock looked down, and realized his laughter hadn’t diminished his partial erection. He looked at John, and didn’t see a bulge. Oh. It was just him.

John threw his jacket on the sofa and cupped Sherlock’s cheeks, kissing him soundly. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said against his lips. “I think it’s really hot.”

Sherlock felt his lips trying to smile, but he tried to hold it back. “Really?”

“Really,” John affirmed, kissing his cheek. His tone had turned low and teasing, and he placed a hand on Sherlock’s chest.

And suddenly, Sherlock wanted all of it. He wanted to feel John’s hands on his naked skin, he wanted John to make him feel good. He wanted John to make love to him, and the thought made him whimper. “John, please, can we--?”

“Yeah,” John’s breath rushed out of him. “Yes, Sherlock. I want to touch you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I thought they were going to have sex in this chapter, but before I knew it, this chapter was mainly conversation. Oh well. They needed to talk. They'll still talk afterwards. Anyway, much kissing next chapter


	10. In Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all. Thanks to those who commented and said they hoped I feel better. Well, I was upset because I had heard spoilers from the finale and I wasn't pleased, and actually seeing it...yeah, I only felt worse :P I won't go on about it here. If you want to talk, stop by my tumblr (obsessivelollipoplalala). I am feeling a little better now, though. I'll always love this show and this pairing.

Sherlock gulped and nodded frantically. “John, I think going to my bedroom would be the best. The sofa is rather small for two grown men.”

John was giving him a lopsided smile. “You don’t have to explain wanting to take me to bed, Sherlock.”

His lips compressed. “Right.”

John patted him on the chest lightly. “C’mon.”

Sherlock walked with John to his bedroom in a haze, his erection softening a little from a sudden wave of uncertainty. He wanted to have sex, but it was no secret that no one ever touched him before, and he never touched anyone intimately. Janine had wanted to have sex with him, but he couldn’t. He didn’t love her, and, of course, he was gay. He wouldn’t have been able to get it up if he tried.

He wasn’t sure which option intimidated him more: John touching _him_ , or him touching _John_. Well, “intimidate” wasn’t exactly the right word, but he simply didn’t know what it would be like to have another person’s hands on him, and he had no idea how to touch someone else. He finally had the chance to be with John and he had no idea what to do.

Sherlock realized they were inside his room and John was staring at him with concern.

“You’ve gone pale,” John said, placing his hand on his cheek. “You okay?”

“Of course,” he snapped.

John raised an eyebrow, his hand dropping to his side. “No, you’re not. What happened during the walk from the sitting room to here?”

Sherlock wanted to make up excuses, but he mentally scolded himself. _No more lies._ “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted weakly, looking down at the carpet. He was a forty year-old virgin. He was laughable.

John took his hand.

Sherlock kept his eyes downcast.

“Sherlock,” he said softly, “it’s okay. Sex isn’t difficult. You just do what feels good, listen to your body. It isn’t a science.”

He knew John was trying to be comforting, but something about his words only made him feel worse. “I’m freezing up. I don’t know if I can listen to my body,” he mumbled. John let go of his hand, so Sherlock looked up.

John placed a chaste kiss on his lips. “We’re not doing this until you’re comfortable.”

Somehow, that snapped something inside of him. “No!” he exclaimed, startling John. His heart was sinking. “We’ve waited so long, John,” he said brokenly. “We finally have this opportunity--we can’t waste it!” He was dimly aware that he was starting to sound frantic. “I can do it, John, I promise.” He had to do this for John. They were apart for so much time, so many years. “I’m not and idiot, I can do it--”

John grabbed him by the shoulders. “Sherlock,” he said firmly, “calm down. You’re starting to panic. We have time. You don’t have to push yourself into this.”

He shook himself out of John’s grip. “No. I _want_ to--”

“But you’re nervous,” John supplied.

He silently nodded.

“Right,” John put his hands on his hips. “Right.” He stood there in thought for a moment. “We can take things really slowly, and by that I mean, we can start whenever you want.”

A crinkle formed between Sherlock’s eyebrows. “Start when I want?”

“I mean,” he cleared his throat, “um, what are you comfortable with? Did you like when we kissed, and, er, hugged?”

Those acts were so simple that Sherlock almost felt embarrassed to admit he loved doing that. “Yes.”

John bit his lip, nodding. “Mm. Is it being naked that’s bothering you, or the idea of touching?”

Sherlock cleared his throat delicately. “I used to walk around in the flat with a sheet. I’m not averse to being nude.”

John was holding back a smirk. “Very good,” he said lowly, flirtatiously. “How about we undress, go on the bed, and take it from there? We can only kiss if you want, or just hold each other.”

Sherlock took in a shaky breath. That sounded good. He could hold John and kiss him. “Okay.”

“Would it feel better if you took off your own clothes?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then do it,” John winked.

A little of the tension went away, and Sherlock gave him a cautious grin. He undressed quickly, ignoring the rising flush on his cheeks and neck. He was still slightly hard. He looked at John and couldn’t stop his mouth from dropping open and his eyes scanning every visible naked inch of skin. John was smiling, but there was a hint of bashfulness to it. His bare, toned chest was dusted with golden hair, leading down to a dark trail below his navel which led to his partially erect cock. Sherlock was openly staring. It obviously wasn’t the first time he’d seen John naked--that was on that fateful day when he accidentally walked in--but this time, John was naked for _him_.

John giggled nervously, and Sherlock loved the sound.

“Let’s try to relax, okay?” John patted the mattress behind him.

Sherlock approached him wordlessly and planted a firm kiss on his mouth. He wanted to touch John so badly, but seeing him undressed made him even more uncertain. John was beautiful. How was he supposed to touch him correctly? His hands trembled just thinking about it. He and John curled up on the bed on their sides, facing each other, pressing quick kisses to each other’s lips.

Sherlock looked at John’s flushed face and reddened lips, and he wanted to hold him. He wrapped his arms around John, nuzzling his face into the top of his head, inhaling the scent of his hair. John fit perfectly in his arms, and it was strange, because his frame was small compared to his own, but John was much stronger than he. He squeezed John, closing his eyes, toes curling happily. Hugging was okay. This didn’t test his boundaries.

“Hey,” John huffed out a laugh into his shoulder, hooking a leg over Sherlock’s. He rubbed Sherlock’s back soothingly, his palm warm.

He kissed the top of John’s head, slowly starting to relax, and the feel of John’s bare skin on his making his cock stir with interest again.

If John felt that, he didn’t respond.

“The last time I saw you naked was when you were with Mary,” Sherlock couldn’t resist commenting.

John’s hand paused. “That really upset you, didn’t it? I saw the look on your face...I was so shocked, I couldn’t even process it until later.”

Sherlock nodded into his hair. “It was upsetting,” he confessed.

John rubbed his back again. “God, I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “I would’ve hated seeing you with someone else like that.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sherlock said, and he meant it. “You were doing it in the privacy of your home. I was the one who barged in.”

“I’m glad you did now,” John said. “If you hadn’t, maybe we wouldn’t be here.”

That was true. Sherlock sighed wistfully. “Perhaps not.”

“And then,” John went on, his voice rising a little, “after you got upset, I came into your home and said you couldn’t be in a relationship if you tried.” He stopped rubbing his back again and moved to look up at Sherlock. “I really hurt you,” he said quietly, his face wracked with guilt.

Sherlock brought John to his chest and put his face in his hair again. “It was a misunderstanding. We’ve misunderstood each other for years.

“We need to stop doing that,” he said into his neck.

“We really do.”

To Sherlock’s relief, John started rubbing his back again. He didn’t know why he liked it so much, but he didn’t think any other physical sensation he had previously experienced calmed him as much as this. If he weren’t half aroused, he suspected he could fall asleep like this. Maybe later.

As John kept stroking his skin, he began smearing soft kisses on his pale shoulder. “I haven’t said yet,” John murmured, “but you’re beautiful.” Sherlock felt himself blush, and John chuckled. “Your blush starts on your chest,” he pressed a kiss on his collarbone. “It’s gorgeous.”

His pink blush turned red. “John,” he hid his face in John’s hair.

“I think you’re lovely,” he said.

Sherlock shivered, and John rubbed his back a little faster. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“What for?” Sherlock asked.

“Just for everything, Sherlock,” he said sadly. “Everything since the day we met.”

Sherlock shook his head, resulting in his mouth rubbing the top of John’s head. “I’m no innocent. We’ve both done harm to each other.”

“Let’s stop hurting each other,” John said with determination.

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

John kissed the side of his neck briefly, and went back to feather-light kisses on his shoulder.

The feeling of John’s soft, wet lips on his skin was making Sherlock feel hot, his nipples turning hard. He kissed John’s forehead, moving his body closer so they were completely pressed against each other. He started breathing heavily, loving the feeling of his bare skin on John’s. He began peppering kisses on John’s face, at least as far as he could reach, and slid one of his hands down John’s neck, the length of his spine, and settled at his hip. He discovered his hand was quite a bit large, considering the scale of John’s body, and it lit a protective flame in his stomach.

John tilted his head up and sealed their mouths together in a hungry kiss, his hand moving up Sherlock’s back to dive into his thick curls. “’M sorry,” John said into the kiss, “are we moving too fast?”

Sherlock made a negative sound in his throat, wanting John to stop talking and keep kissing him. The firm, hot pressure of John’s lips on his made his mind fuzzy, but pleasantly so, and he groaned quietly when John sucked on his bottom lip. His mouth closed around John’s upper lip and he sucked lightly, and he was unaware he was getting harder. Having John kiss him hard and to hold him so close was slowly overwhelming Sherlock. His hand tightened on John’s hip when their tongues touched, and their kiss deepened to a slow, wet, sloppy glide of lips and tongues. Sherlock’s heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest. If he had been more aware of his action, he would know that his thumb was going to leave a large bruise on John’s grip from his tight hold. He wrapped his arm around John’s waist and pulling him as close as possible, their hips aligning, cocks touching.

His eyes shot open and he gasped.

“It’s okay,” John kissed his jaw, “it’s okay. Breathe. You’re doing brilliantly.”

Sherlock hid his face in John’s neck, stifling a pathetic whimper. He was surprised by how hard he was, and by how hard John’s length was against his. He felt like he wanted more. He wanted to rock his hips.

“Do you want me to touch you?” John whispered in his ear.

Sherlock nodded, choosing to kiss John’s neck instead of verbally answering.

John’s thumb swiped over his nipple, rolling the hard bud, and shifting so he could place his mouth on it. Sherlock’s mouth dropped open with a moan and he could only watch, the sudden pleasure jolting through his body rendering him immobile. John lapped at his nipple, nibbling it lightly as his hand trailed down Sherlock’s abdomen to cup his erection.

“J--” Sherlock started, but bit his lip hard. He didn’t want to make noise. It was humiliating.

John moved his mouth to Sherlock’s neck, sucking the soft, sensitive skin and slowly stroking Sherlock to full hardness. His thumb rubbed the tip, and Sherlock bit his lip even harder, trying desperately to hold back his needy moans. This felt so good, but it was already so overwhelming. He screwed his eyes shut, and the effort not to moan made his chest start to contract as small, short pants left his lungs.

“Sherlock?” John asked. “You okay?”

Sherlock nodded (how often had he nodded in the past twenty minutes? He felt like he was turning into an imbecile).

John’s hand let go of him, and this time, Sherlock did release a moan of frustration. He regretted it immediately, though, and slapped a hand over his mouth, shy in a way he didn’t know he could be.

“Hey, hey,” John’s hand covered his, “what’s wrong? It’s okay.”

Sherlock shook his head. He was so stupid. He couldn’t even handle a simple handjob. Teenagers could handle more sex than he could.

“Open your eyes, please.”

Sherlock did.

John was frowning. “What is it? Is it too much?”

He lowered his hand, taking John’s with him. “I’m sorry--”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said immediately.

“It’s not the physical sensation as much.” He sounded out of breath. “It’s…” he subconsciously bit his lip again.

“Please tell me,” John stroked his knuckles. “Please, Sherlock.”

He wanted the floor to come swallow him up. “I don’t want to make noise,” he said.

John looked confused. “Huh? Why not? Everyone does it.”

“But not _me_ ,” he said petulantly.

“Sherlock.” He kissed his cheek. “It’s perfectly normal to make noise. I _want_ to hear you make noise. There’s nothing wrong with it. It doesn’t turn you into an idiot. It doesn’t make you any less you.”

Blessed John, he knew the heart of his insecurities before his brain made the connection. “You really don’t mind?” he asked meekly.

“Not at all,” John shook his head. “I want to know I’m making you feel good.”

“You are,” he said, glancing down at his straining erection, and the sight made his jaw drop. God, he didn’t think he had ever been that hard in his life. His eyes flickered up to John’s. “John, can we go on?”

“Of course,” John kissed him. “But, I have a feeling. Tell me if I’m right.”

“Okay,” he said, slightly caught off guard.

“Would you feel better if we were both touching each other, instead of all the attention being on you?”

Tension he didn’t know he was holding melted from his muscles. That would be better. How did John know him better than he knew himself? “Yes,” he said. Oh. He should have been touching John all this time, too, and he hadn’t because he was so caught up with his own arousal. A quick look down at John’s leaking cock confirmed this. “I’m sorry I can’t do it the right way, John.”

“There is no right way,” he said sternly. “None. The only wrong way to do sex is if one or both of us winds up unhappy.” His eyes held heart wrenching tenderness. “I want to make you feel good because I love you, Sherlock. Let’s work together and see what works, yeah?”

Sherlock’s heart thudded with an all-encompassing wave of tenderness. “Yeah,” he rasped out.

Their mouths met, they locked their legs together, and Sherlock now knew what John meant when he said his body would know what to do. His body felt like it needed pressure on his cock, so his hips rocked, and John’s did, too. Their cocks slid together, and soon John’s hand wrapped itself around both of their erections. Sherlock allowed himself to moan this time, and John grunted into his mouth. The hot, hard, slick slide of their cocks into the tight tunnel of John’s hand made Sherlock’s hips start to buck in a way to which he was unaccustomed. It felt delicious, and he wanted more. He thrust faster into John’s hand, and deep, drawn out _uhhhs_ left his lips between hard kisses. It was okay, though, because John said it was okay, and he, himself, was groaning into Sherlock’s mouth. They were both leaking, their semen serving as a lube and allowing their thrusts to become more frantic.

John bit Sherlock’s lower lip hard and he cried out, clutching at John’s broad shoulders helplessly. He was sweating, his entire body consumed in heat and sharp tingles of pleasure. He felt his balls tightening, and by this point, he and John could only pant and huff hot, harsh breaths against each other’s open mouths, too far gone to properly coordinate a kiss.

“Oh, fuck,” John moaned, his voice rich and thick like velvet. His hips snapped faster. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Oh, my Sherlock.” He huffed hot, harsh breaths onto his face.

A whimper escaped from Sherlock’s lips, the hot-fast-tingling pleasure becoming too much to bear. “John! God, oh god, John!” he moaned. He couldn’t stop making noise of he tried, little whines coming from his throat with every snap of his hips.

“Let me hear you, baby,” John whispered, voice husky. “C’mon, Sherlock, you’re doing so well. Let go for me.”

Whether he was about to climax anyway or the unexpected pet name pushed him over the edge, he didn’t know, but suddenly the bubble of pleasure burst and he was coming hard, his eyes opening widely, seeing stars, shouting. John’s thrusts were erratic and hard, and then he was coming, a loud moan tearing out of his throat. With their foreheads together, Sherlock couldn’t fully see John’s face as he came, and for that, he was regretful. But it didn’t bother him much at all, because he felt the hot burst of John’s semen on him, and simply hearing his moans and harsh breaths during his climax was enough.

John removed his come-covered hand from their bodies and wiped it unceremoniously on the duvet. Sherlock was too busy catching his breath to care. His eyes were still wide and he was gulping for air, his body trembling.

John, panting from his release, gathered Sherlock into his arms and made a shushing sound as best as he could. “It’s all right,” he said breathlessly. “Breathe, Sherlock. You’re okay.”

Sherlock breathed, and he closed his eyes and buried his face into John’s neck. He felt vulnerable and exposed, but also cared for and protected. He didn’t know what to do with these contradictory emotions. “John,” he whispered.

John’s chest was heaving against his, still recovering from orgasm. “I know,” he said simply. “I know.”

And Sherlock believed that he did know. He took deep, steadying breaths, focusing on John’s strong arms around him and the sensation of their heartbeats hammering in sync, and the gradual slowing down of their pulses. His thoughts started to come back to him, and he felt a pang of regret. When he allowed himself to imagine having sex with John, he didn’t think he would get so overwhelmed, and he thought he would have been a more attentive lover. He wanted to touch John until he drove him crazy, worshipping his body and making him feel loved. He failed on that part.

“John?”

“Mhm?”

“Did you like it?”

He kissed the top of Sherlock’s curly head. “Of course I did. Did you?”

“Yes. I just wanted…” He trailed off. He didn’t know how to say this. Was it too soppy? He remembered how John bitterly said Mary would have never sent him flowers, and his own deductions that she never really complimented or took care of John. He had gone unappreciated for years. Sherlock had to change that. He gathered all of his courage and scooted back a little so he could take John’s face in his hands.

John’s eyes widened slightly.

Sherlock quite liked having his face in his hands. “I wanted it to go differently,” he said, his voice still slightly breathless, but earnest. One of his thumbs stroked John’s cheek, and he didn’t miss how John blinked rapidly at that from surprise. Mary must have not done this, at least not often. “I wanted it to be about you, but it wound up being all about me,” he said quickly, wanting to get it over with.

John’s face was so puzzled that it was rather cute, and Sherlock stroked both of his cheeks. He wanted to kiss the tip of his nose, but figured it might have been a touch inappropriate during a serious conversation.

“Sherlock, it’s supposed to be about both of us, and it wasn’t just about you,” John countered, his eyes a little glazed from sex still, but holding his gaze steadily. “You were getting flustered, and I needed to make sure you were okay. Like I said, Sherlock, sex is about both people feeling good. I liked taking care of you.”

His heart clenched. “But, I wanted to take care of you.” He frowned at himself. He never thought he would say those words to anyone. John deserved those words, though. Only him.

John sighed, but a small grin was playing at his lips. “You’re already doing it, Sherlock.”

“I’m not doing enough--”

“Stop,” John cut him off. “Stop doubting yourself, okay? You--even though it’s kind of hilarious in hindsight--you set up a whole romantic plot. You’ve done so much for me.”

“I want to do more,” he said, his voice coming out scratchier than he intended. “I want you to know you’re loved every day.”

John’s mouth worked wordlessly. He cleared his throat and swallowed. “You’re doing a fine job already,” he said roughly.

Sherlock kissed him, their lips smacking loudly, feeling like warm honey was filling his heart.

Their kiss ended after a few moments. John rubbed their noses together. “And look, we’ll have more times to do exactly what you want, yeah?”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes.”

John turned his head and kissed one of his palms. “Then it’s fine, and like I said, sex is about doing what feels right and natural. It feels better that way. Look at what we just did. That wasn’t planned, but it still felt good, right?”

“Yes,” he agreed. “It felt very good.”

“See what I mean?”

He kissed the tip of his nose.

John giggled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Feel better, then?”

“Yes.” He cupped John’s cheeks fully and kissed him soundly on the lips. He was over-thinking. If John said he was doing fine, then he believed him. He removed his hands from John’s face and looked down at his groin, now aware of the drying semen. “I think this will dry.”

“Want me to get a flannel?”

“I’m capable of getting out of bed, John.”

“Then be my guest,” John stretched, lying on his back with his hands behind his head.

Sherlock rolled his eyes playfully and got up, grabbing a washcloth from the bathroom and wetting it. When he came back, John was staring at him.

“Hey, sexy,” John smirked.

Sherlock threw the washcloth at him.

“Oof,” John said when it landed on his face. “Not nice,” he scolded as he grabbed it and wiped himself down. He threw it back at Sherlock.

Sherlock caught it. He felt like a naughty child. “You threw it back.”

“You threw it first.”

Sherlock wiped himself off and threw it behind his back. “You didn’t have to stoop to my level.”

“You didn’t have to throw it in the first place,” he teased, not even pretending to look at Sherlock’s face, his eyes roaming over the planes of his chest and his now-flaccid penis.

“Have you no shame?” Sherlock sighed dramatically, feeling much more confident about being vulnerable with John now that they talked. This felt nice. This felt _fun._

“Nope,” John shook his head. “Hey, turn around. I didn’t get to see enough of your arse.”

Sherlock’s hands flew to his bottom, and he giggled as he blushed. “John!”

He shrugged. “What, can you blame me? You’re a piece of work.”

Sherlock settled on his back on the bed. “No.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You won’t show me your lovely arse?”

Sherlock stared resolutely at the ceiling, forcing all expression from his face. “Nope.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm.”

“Interesting. Are you ticklish, Sherlock?”

He snorted. “Don’t be absurd, John.” Honestly!

“Oh,” John’s hand casually rested on his hip. “I believe you.”

“You do?”

“Mhm. Totally.” He sat up on his knees.

Sherlock wasn’t concerned. He wasn’t ticklish. John was just being ridiculous.

John’s hands attacked his sides, and a loud, startled fit of laughter burst from his mouth. John was grinning wildly above him, looking like a child opening a Christmas present. Sherlock couldn’t stop laughing and he kicked his legs. “John! J--John! Stop!” He turned onto his side to try to curl away from John.

“Aha!” John smacked his exposed arse, drawing a yelp from Sherlock.

Sherlock was catching his breath and collapsed onto his stomach, having too much fun to make a real attempt to glare at John. “You bastard.”

“Was that so hard?”

“I didn’t know I was ticklish.”

“Had you ever been tickled before?”

Good point. “No.”

“You learn something new every day.” He climbed on top of Sherlock, sprawling himself out on his back, kissing the back of his neck. “You silly bugger.”

John’s solid, comforting weight on top of him made his eyes close and a rumble release from his chest.

“Am I crushing you?” John asked from above him.

“No,” he slurred into his pillow. He liked this fun side of John. He wanted to have fun with him more. He opened his eyes. He felt like his thoughts were wandering away. There was something about John’s warm body pressing down on his which turned his mind into pudding. He nuzzled his pillow, his muscles turning into pudding, as well, and the aftermath of his orgasm was catching up with him. John’s arms wrapped around his torso and he rested his head on his back. He could feel each rise and fall of John’s chest against his body. This was bliss.

John pressed a tiny kiss to his skin. “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” he mumbled. They should have sorted everything out before. This was nice. John’s body on his was nice. It was comfortable. They should do this more often. His breathing slowed and his mind was beautifully silent. He felt safe and loved.

His eyes slid closed again, and he didn’t even register John’s soft, fond chuckle, “Sweet dreams, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That felt really good to write. This chapter was longer than usual. I figured I should give you a little treat after last Sunday. (If you like TFP, then that's great lol.)  
> I haven't forgotten about Mary, by the way...


	11. What Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their morning after is overshadowed by the question of what the hell to do about Mary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you sooooooooooooooo much for getting this over 400 kudos! Thank you thank you thank you!!!!!!  
> Oh, by the way, if you've been on tumblr you've probably seen that the fandom isn't the happiest place right now. If you still like the show and want to be happy about what's good about it, please feel free to stop by my blog and chat or something. It's still my favorite show, and I know that a lot of blogs are bashing the show 24/7. If you're like me and genuinely can't handle that stress right now, then we can ignore what we didn't like about season 4 together lol

Sherlock woke up slowly, his mind pleasantly sluggish, his limbs warm and heavy. He released a small, sleepy grunt and smacked his lips. He was lying on his stomach, head turned to the right on his pillow, and he felt a warm weight on his back. It took a couple seconds for his fuzzy mind to realize it was an arm wrapped around him, and soft, long breaths were rhythmically fanning over his bare shoulder. His eyes shot open and his heart kicked happily. _John!_

John was sleeping next to him on his side, his left arm slung over Sherlock, hair mussed and eyelids flickering as he dreamt. His cheek was smashed against the pillow and his lips were parted. Sherlock didn’t think he had ever seen John look so peaceful, even back when they lived together and he would find John sleeping on the sofa. Sherlock looked at his fluttering golden lashes and wished he knew what dreams were playing out behind his eyelids. He wanted to pet John’s ruffled hair, but thought it would awaken him, so Sherlock settled for placing a small, careful kiss on his forehead. He yawned and buried his cheek further into his pillow, having no desire to get up, smiling. _John Watson is in my bed,_ he thought joyfully. This time yesterday, he had a miserable, piercing pain in his chest. If only he’d known that John wasn’t going to reject him. He still couldn’t quite believe it. They had sex last night (well, it was technically sex, but it was more like Sherlock whined through a handjob and John did all the work). Sherlock’s face heated when he remembered how awkward he had been, but it had been glorious, too, because John said he had enjoyed it. He remembered their conversation, and John looking into his eyes as Sherlock told him that he wanted to take care of him. Sherlock didn’t know how he was brave enough to say all of that, but he was glad he did.

Sherlock eyes roamed over John’s sleeping, vulnerable face, feeling protective. He would start taking care of him immediately. As much as he didn’t want to wake John, the urge to touch him was too strong. Sherlock lifted his hand slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements, and delicately ran his thumb over the growing stubble on John’s jaw. When John didn’t stir, Sherlock’s hand moved to his hair, and gently stroked the (soft, surprisingly soft) tufts between his fingers. John sighed in his sleep, but only seemed to get more comfortable, so Sherlock kept doing it, his hand moving slowly as if he were touching something precious and fragile. John wasn’t a fragile man, far from it, but he needed more support than Sherlock had thought. Being married to someone who constantly disrespected you would do that to someone, he supposed.

There was the problem with Mary. She knew that Sherlock told John the truth. John didn’t go home last night. She must have made the connection. He swallowed. He didn’t know how she was going to take all of this, but he stubbornly decided that Mary couldn’t take away their first morning after. He wanted to enjoy having John all to himself for the morning, at least. They’d deal with her after they got out of bed.

Sherlock startled when he heard John chuckle. His eyes snapped to John, who was grinning and blinking at him blearily. His hand froze. “Hello.”

“Hey,” John greeted, voice wonderfully deep and rough from sleep. “You’ve been staring into space and petting me for two minutes, you know.”

He took his hand off John’s head. “Oh.”

“I didn’t say you had to stop. Something on your mind?”

“It can wait,” he said.

“You sure?” he yawned.

 _Maybe not,_ he thought, but damn it, he wanted to enjoy some bloody happiness with John! He shooed away his sudden wave of bitterness. “It can wait until we leave bed.”

“M’kay,” John chuckled. His arm tightened around Sherlock and he buried another yawn in his pale shoulder. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Sherlock’s eyebrow raised in amusement. “Yes?”

“When you fell asleep on the sofa watching crap telly, remember?”

“Of course I do; it was only last night.”

John paused. “God, it was, wasn’t it?” he asked rhetorically. “Almost feels like a lifetime ago.”

“Our relationship status changed dramatically within a short amount of time,” Sherlock said.

John smirked. “I’m aware,” he said, and his hand slid from Sherlock’s waist to playfully cup his buttock. Sherlock gasped and John giggled. “Sorry, I’ll stop,” he said and put his hand on Sherlock’s back instead.

Sherlock took a moment to remember how to breathe. “I--you didn’t have to let go.”

John bit his lip, but said, “Tempting. You do have a lovely arse, but I didn’t say what I wanted to tell you yet.”

“Oh, right.” Sherlock could ignore the stirring in his groin. For a minute.

John’s hand ran over his skin gently. “It’s nothing big, really, but remember when you fell asleep on my shoulder?”

“Yes,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Well, I actually let you sleep there for forty-five minutes.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. “What? Why?”

“Because I wanted to be close to you,” John said simply, brushing Sherlock’s fringe away from his forehead.

Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered at his touch and he rolled onto his side.

John’s hand settled on his face, thumb stroking his prominent cheekbone. “It was agony, pretending to watch bloody Gordon Ramsay when you were sitting right next to me, sharing the same bloody blanket,” he said. “I wanted to touch you, but wasn’t brave enough.”

“Me too,” Sherlock admitted. He was glad that he wasn’t the only one who had a minor emotional crisis on the sofa. Sherlock leaned into his touch, cheek growing warm under John’s hand. “Our entire previous conversation about you not knowing what to do about--well, me, had me on edge.”

John snickered, “I can’t believe I was going to get the cops involved.”

Sherlock giggled. “That would have been quite an ordeal.”

John’s thumb ran over his skin again. “You’re absolutely mad. You sat through that entire conversation, acting like I was talking about a complete stranger.”

“I didn’t want to confess yet,” he shrugged.

“You’re silly,” John pecked his cheek. “But, that must have been unpleasant for you.”

“You have no idea,” he said darkly.

John gave him a sympathetic look. “No, I suppose I don’t. I knew something was bothering you while we were sitting together. I was relieved when you relaxed and nodded off.”

“I didn’t intend to,” he muttered.

“I know. But, I was glad you did. It gave me a chance to enjoy being near you without any pressure, although I spent the whole time debating whether or not I should’ve stroked your hair.”

The thought of John watching him sleep and wanting to pet him made an odd little bubble of warmth form in Sherlock’s chest. He just did that exact thing to John--petted his hair as he slept--but no one ever wanted to care for him in his sleep before, and the notion of John doing it...“Oh.”

John let go of his face and wrapped his arm around his waist. “And then, when you fell asleep again while I was in the shower, I couldn’t resist sitting with you again.”

“Am I that irresistible?” he joked lightly.

“Absolutely,” John murmured, kissing him briefly. They both had morning breath, but Sherlock didn’t really care.

When John pulled back, his eyes were suddenly serious. “I always wanted you. You know that, right?”

“I do now,” he said softly.

But that didn’t satisfy John. His mouth twisted unhappily. “Sherlock, if there was ever a time when you think I didn’t want you, or thought little of you, you’re wrong. I know I fucked up and insulted you, and I’ve said too many unkind things to you in the past, and I’m really sorry for that, but I’ve _always_ adored you,” he said earnestly.

Sherlock’s throat tightened and he felt like he was going to combust. His brain short-circuited and he hid his face in John’s neck, closing his eyes when John cradled him to his chest. “I know,” he said roughly, breathing deeply through the stinging in his eyes.

John noticed his emotional state, though, and breathed a soft _shhhh_ into his hair. He held Sherlock tightly. “You love so deeply,” he whispered into his curls. “I see that now. I’m sorry. I don’t deserve you.”

Sherlock shook his head, his nose rubbing John’s neck and shoulder in the process. “Don’t be sorry for anything.” His voice sounded like sandpaper. He cleared his throat. “You’re the very best thing to ever happen to me.” Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s back, returning the hug, their hearts thumping together.

“I love you,” John said shakily. “I love you so much.”

Sherlock could barely hold back his small sob. “Love you too,” he managed to say. John was right about him; he loved deeply. He tried so hard to keep it inside, but he couldn’t. Perhaps he should tell John this. It might please him. “John, you’re right about me--feeling things. You know better than anyone how hard I tried to fight it, tried to be a machine, but nothing could stop me from loving you.”

John’s breath quivered and Sherlock felt him swallow thickly.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I could have saved us a lot of pain of--”

“Stop it,” John chastised, holding him so tightly his embrace was almost painful. “I know it’s hard for you sometimes to let yourself, well, be you.”

Sherlock nodded meekly.

“You shut yourself off for so long, but you’ve still done so much for me, and you love me more than anyone else,” his voice cracked. He sighed harshly and pressed a firm kiss to the top of his head. “And I acted like a prick. I didn’t make things easy for you.”

“I didn’t make things easy for you,” Sherlock countered, lips brushing his neck.

“Sherlock, do you forgive me for how I’ve treated you?”

The question surprised him and he hugged John closer. “Of course I do. Did I not make that clear?”

“You did, but, just checking. So, you forgive me. I forgive you for anything you think you did wrong. What I mean to say is, can we stop blaming ourselves for everything? I’ve fucked up over the years and so have you.” Sherlock got the feeling that it would have been significantly more difficult for John to say all this if their faces were not hidden. He kissed the side of John's neck in encouragement. John went on, asking quietly, “Can we just love each other from now on?”

Nothing sounded more perfect. “ _Yes_ ,” he said, heart pounding and the stinging returning to his eyes.

“I’m so proud of you,” John said thickly. “You’ve always been a good man, Sherlock, but you’ve come so far. I love your beautiful heart.” By this point, John was practically rocking him.

Sherlock clamped his jaw shut, his shoulders shuddering from the effort to hold back his tears. He never thought anyone would fall in love with the real him, or accept his big, stupid heart and emotional side. Mycroft was wrong. Caring was an advantage. Caring allowed him to love and be loved by John.

They hugged tightly, hearts beating in sync and breaths trembling with unshed tears, and despite the intense emotions he felt, Sherlock thought he had never been happier. He wanted John to hold him for the rest of the day.

“Sometimes,” John spoke, one of his hands moving to tangle into his messy curls, “I’m so bloody _fond_ of you, I could hardly breathe.”

“ _John_.”

“I am.” He sighed happily, kissing the top of his head. “My perfect man.”

Sherlock’s body trembled “I’m not perfect,” he protested, and he was glad his face was in John’s neck, because he was sure his skin was scarlet. “I’m an arsehole.”

“Sometimes,” John agreed, amused, “but so am I. And you’re being very sweet right now.”

“I’m not sweet,” he automatically denied into John’s skin.

“You’re full of shit,” John said affectionately.

“So are you,” he playfully nipped his neck. As much as he wanted to giggle with John in bed all day, he had to talk about Mary sooner or later. After a few minutes of silence, he felt John’s body start to relax again. They should talk before one of them falls back asleep. “John, there’s something we need to discuss.”

“Yeah?”

“Mary.”

He sighed, shifting so his head was on Sherlock’s pillow so they could look at each other. His eyes were bright with tears from a couple minutes ago, but neither would mention that. “What about her?”

“I’m concerned.”

“Why?”

Sherlock gaped. _Why?_ A better question was why John wasn’t worried. “John, she knows that I told you the truth about her pregnancy. I don’t think she reacted to that news well.”

“How’s she know that?” he asked.

“I told her the game was over yesterday. I texted her. Then I became preoccupied and forgot about her.”

John pursed his lips. “So, she knows you exposed her, that you love me, I got an expensive bottle of scotch from someone other than her, and I didn’t come last night.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re afraid she’s going to hurt us,” he said bluntly.

He couldn’t deny it. “Aren’t you? She shot me when I tried to help her. You think she’d take this quietly?”

John looked guilty as soon as Sherlock mentioned the shooting. “I...Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” He rubbed his eyes. “She holds grudges. She won’t let me divorce her and go with you happily into the sunset.”

“Indeed,” he said grimly. He pictured Mary coming in and killing them while they were kissing in the sitting room, or having dinner together, or while they were in bed. She would like making a scene like that. She was an ex-agent. She could break into 221B if she really wanted to. Sherlock felt unsafe in his own home.

John saw fear on Sherlock’s face, and his expression softened. “Hey, Sherlock, tell me what’s going on in that big brain of yours.”

“She’s going to hurt us, John. She could break into the flat at any moment and kill us as an act of revenge. She already hates me. If she thinks I took you away from her--and she wouldn’t be forgiving to you, either, especially because she already suspected you of cheating. We need to do something about her,”

“Hey, hey,” he shushed, taking Sherlock’s hands under the blankets. “Calm down before you start having a panic attack, okay? I know she’s probably a bloody psychopath. I know. But she’s not unstoppable, right? She’s just a person.” He cleared his throat. “She was able to hurt you before because we didn’t know she was like that, but now we do.”

“And now she’ll step up her game,” he said darkly.

John looked frustrated. “You’re not being very helpful.”

“Forgive me for not being optimistic about dealing with the woman who shot me,” he snapped.

John glared at him. “Don’t get mad at me, Sherlock. I want her out of our lives as much as you do.”

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes. He needed to regain his composure. John didn’t deserve his anger. “Sorry.” He opened his eyes.

John sighed and rolled onto his back, scratching his jaw. “I left my phone in my jacket pocket. Think she’s tried to call me?”

“Go and check.”

John nodded and sat up, stretching briefly. He walked naked across the room as if he did it every day, and despite the tense atmosphere, Sherlock couldn’t help but stare. Once John left the room, Sherlock sat up and leaned against the headboard, running his hand through his hair. He looked at the clock and saw it was only 7:15. He never woke up this early on days without cases. He wanted to go back to sleep with John. He growled internally. _Stupid Mary._

John came back into the room with his phone in his hand. “Five missed calls and two text messages. Want me to read them?”

“Please.”

“The first one says, ‘I knew you were up to something, John!’ Then she tried to call me, and the next one says, ‘Fine. Don’t even bother coming home.’”

“That sounds too good to be true,” Sherlock said.

“What do you mean?” John asked, putting his phone on the bedside table.

“She sounds as if she wants nothing to do with you, which would make it easier for you to divorce her. _If_ she's planning on getting revenge, this could lull you into a false sense of security.”

John chewed on his bottom lip, nodding. “Could be.” He looked at Sherlock for a long moment, and Sherlock could practically see the wheels in his brain turning. John sat on the edge of the bed, placing his hand on Sherlock’s knee through the duvet. “I think you were less worried about Moriarty than you're worried about her,” he said soberly.

Sherlock looked at down John’s hand. He was right. “He was a game, at least at first, and I was younger. Bolder. Stupider.” He hated thinking about Moriarty anymore. He kept him locked away in his Mind Palace as tightly as possible. “I wasn’t afraid of him until it was too late.” John’s grip tightened on his knee. “I'm sorry,” Sherlock apologized again. He didn’t think he could ever make it up to John.

“Didn’t we agree to stop beating ourselves up?” John asked hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “I've already forgiven you for that.”

Sherlock looked up at him. “I know.” He sometimes doubted that he deserved John’s forgiveness.

John climbed over Sherlock to sit next to him on the bed, sighing when his head rested against the wooden headboard.

Sherlock looked down at John’s bare body, and if he weren’t so distressed over Mary, he would have gotten aroused.

John smiled weakly. “Like what you see?”

“You know I do.” He couldn’t bring himself to smile. He thought of Mary. “Another difference between her and Moriarty is that she knows for certain how I feel about you. Moriarty knew I cared for you, but to what extent, I’m not sure.”

“That’s true,” John said. “She knows how both of us feel. And she’s direct. She doesn’t orchestrate grand plans like Moriarty did; she shot you point blank.”

Sherlock nodded silently. In that way, she was more dangerous. He rested his cheek against the top of John’s head, thinking. They would have to make it clear to Mary that they were ready for any nonsense revenge plot she could possibly plan. They had to threaten her somehow. Sherlock didn’t want to physically threaten her, though. He didn’t know how John would feel about that, and although he shot Magnussen in the head, it wasn’t something he was proud of, and he wished there could have been a way around it.

John spoke, “You know, I don’t think we need some elaborate plan to deal with her. Know what I think we should do?”

“What?”

“I think we just got to confront her. We should be armed, just in case. I don’t know if she’ll try anything but,” he cleared his throat, “can’t risk--that--happening again.”

Sherlock’s lips compressed. There wasn’t a viable way around it, was there? He would have to shake away the lingering fear of his nightmare, and the memories from the night she shot him. John would be there. He could do it with John there. If they were careful, and if Sherlock got a better sense of how Mary really felt about the situation, then he could concoct a plan if need be. “Yes, bring your gun.”

“It’s back at the house with Mary.”

“I have a revolver.”

“We’ll bring that.”

“Remember how you wanted to meet me in a public place for safety?”

“Yes.”

“We should do the same with her.”

John leaned up and brought their lips together. It was different from all of their other kisses thus far--it felt somber. They parted and stared at each other for a long moment, eyes roaming over the other’s face.

“Text her,” Sherlock said. “Tell her we want to meet her downstairs at Speedy’s.” He felt safer in the vicinity of the flat. It occurred to him that he had an obnoxious big brother in the government, and he kicked himself for not thinking of him sooner. “I can phone Mycroft and ask him to set up surveillance, that way if she tries to hurt either of us, she won’t get away with it.”

John nodded. “Good idea.” He pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and reached for his phone.

Sherlock got off the bed and retrieved his phone from his coat pocket in the sitting room. He dialed Mycroft’s number.

Here they go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's gonna happen?????  
> Idk lol


	12. Severing Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock confront Mary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all.  
> I wanted to let you know that I actually wrote a post-season 4 fix-it story where John is completely consumed by guilt over how he treated Sherlock during "The Lying Detective", wishes that Sherlock would just snap at him and treat him the way John thinks he deserves to be treated, and is filled with self-loathing to the point where he has an emotional breakdown and cries :D I'm going to write a porny epilogue, but you can read the main story for now. I usually feel weird about self-promoting, but I like how it turned out, and if you're reading this, then I assume you like my writing lol  
> Here's the [story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9707135/chapters/21902039) (in case the link fucks up, it's called "Repentance" :P) I'd really, really appreciate it if you check it out.

John arranged it so they were going to meet Mary at Speedy’s at 2 in the afternoon, which would give Mycroft plenty of time to set up a couple security cameras in and outside the shop, and have one of his men around the area in case she needed to be apprehended (Sherlock had told him that was unnecessary, but Mycroft said, “I would rather not run the risk of your heart stopping again, brother”, and Sherlock shut up). They had a few hours to kill until then, and Sherlock and John brushed their teeth, threw on a couple of Sherlock’s dressing gowns, and ate breakfast in silence, minds occupied with Mary. Sherlock didn’t want to get himself worked up, but he had to anticipate the worst. The joy he felt from when he woke up with John was gone, replaced with dread, but exhaustion, too. He wanted all of this to be over so badly.

Having gone to sleep right after sex, neither of them had bathed the night before. Sherlock took a shower first, standing under the warm stream and getting lost in thought. It was weird to think that he walked in on John and Mary just over a week ago. He thought that time was a strange thing; John and Mary hadn’t even been married for a full year, and yet Sherlock felt like this was one of the longest periods of his life (the section of his life that had felt the longest was when he was away, but he preferred not to think about that). When his bar of soap slipped out of his hand, he snapped out of his thoughts and finished washing. He didn’t bother wrapping a towel around his waist when he left the bathroom and told John, “Shower’s free.”

John’s tired eyes immediately went to his penis and he smirked. “Hey.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, blushing slightly. “John.”

He licked his lips. “Is this going to be a thing now that we’ve had sex?”

“Maybe. Problem?”

“God, no,” John said, walking over and placing his hands on Sherlock’s bare hips. His smirk widened slightly, although Sherlock could see the worry behind the humor in his eyes. “Your hair looks like a wet mop.”

Sherlock stood up straight, like a peacock, and looked at John from down the line of his nose. “Well, I clearly haven’t had the time to dry it, John. My hair cannot simply air-dry or it will become a frizzy, knotted mess--”

“All right,” John chuckled. “I’m just teasing. You look cute. Stop pouting.” He lightly tugged a wet curl hanging over Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock sighed theatrically. “Go shower, John. It would be unwise if you talked to Mary while smelling like semen.”

John gave his bum a pat and went into the bathroom.

Sherlock dried his hair, dressed into a suit, and looked out the window to his bedroom, wondering how likely it was that Mary would hurt him or John. The fact that they were meeting her in public diminished the probability. She wasn’t that bold or stupid. When she shot Sherlock, she thought there was no way she would have gotten caught, and since then, she hadn’t tried to hurt Sherlock again, and he thought the only reason for that was because John would have probably put the pieces together and figured out it was her. She didn’t like John seeing her in a negative light. But, she must have known John was done with her, and that could be good or bad. Best case scenario was that she didn’t threaten either of them in an attempt to look good to John and convince him to stay with her. Worst case scenario was that she didn’t give a damn about anything anymore and shot them, ready to go to prison because the charade was over. Something told Sherlock that wasn’t entirely likely, though. Moriarty was that way; when he lost the game, he went so far as to end his life. Mary didn’t fool around like that.

Soft footsteps padded towards him and now showered and fully-clothed John placed his hand on Sherlock’s back. “Whatcha thinking about?”

Sherlock looked at the people walking on the sidewalk down below. “You know,” he said simply.

“I do,” he said. He hugged Sherlock around the middle and rested his chin on his shoulder, looking out the window with Sherlock.

Sherlock thought that no matter what happened, as long as John was with him, he could accept it. It would have been terrible if he had died when Mary shot him, without seeing John before his death.

John kissed the side of his neck. “Whatever you’re thinking that’s making your muscles tense, stop.”

Sherlock sighed. “I just want to get this over with.” He hesitated for a moment, but thought John wouldn’t mind if he said this. “I’m tired of her. I just want to never have to think about her again.” He felt so very, very tired of everything anymore. To think there was a time when he actually enjoyed a bit of drama in his life. He had been through too much to want anything but John, though.

“Me too,” John said somberly. “I’m sick of living with her, let alone sharing a damn bed. When you--walked in--truth be told, I was secretly glad.”

Sherlock turned around in John’s arms. “You were?” he asked skeptically.

“Okay, I probably didn’t seem that way at the time--”

“Mmmmm, you most certainly didn’t,” Sherlock teased.

John gave him a half-hearted glare. “Yeah, I know. I was certainly embarrassed that you saw my bare arse--”

“Among other things.”

John narrowed his eyes. “ _Anyway,_ the embarrassment made me react harshly. But, god,” his ears turned red, “it wasn’t going well. I told you, it almost felt like a last-ditch effort for our relationship. I didn’t really enjoy touching her, and I’m not entirely sure she enjoyed touching me. Later, I was a bit glad you gave us an excuse to stop.”

Sherlock frowned. “I enjoy touching you,” he felt the need to say.

John snorted. “I’ve noticed. And I enjoy touching you.” The humor left his eyes and he shook his head. “I wish I never proposed to her. It feels like I wasted almost a year of my life being married to her.”

“I know why you did it, though.” His lips pressed together. “You were alone and thought she was a good person. Not a former assassin, at least. It’s understandable why you wanted to find another life partner during that period of your life; even when I came back, you were still rightfully angry with me when you proposed.”

John stood there silently for a moment, then the corner of his mouth quirked up. “‘Another life partner’? Are you saying you were my life partner before you fell?”

He blinked. “I didn’t mean to imply that.” It just slipped out.

But John’s face was kind. “It’s fine. You were. Are,” he corrected.

Sherlock smiled, feeling like his heart was glowing. “Good.”

John didn’t smile back. “We’ve known each other for four years, Sherlock, counting when you were away. Why did it take us this long?”

“We’re both idiots,” he said. “I love you, and you thought I didn’t. You love me, and I thought you didn’t. We’re worse than characters from a teen romance novel.”

John giggled. “You’re right about that. It’s not too late for us, is it?”

His heart stopped. “Do you think it is?”

“No,” John said quickly. “No. Sorry, I didn’t mean to get you nervous. I only wish we’d gotten together sooner.”

Sherlock placed his hand on John’s chest, over his heart, feeling a strange need to feel it beat. “I know. But, I think I would have been terrible to you back then.”

“Back when we first lived together? Why do you say that?”

Sherlock looked down at his fingers. “I took advantage of you back then. I thought you would always be there no matter what I did. I never meant to hurt you in any way, John, but I didn’t consider your feelings enough, as evidenced by the Moriarty business.” He felt ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” John’s arms tightened around him, “no more beating ourselves up, remember? I know you didn’t want to upset me. I think, and correct me if I’m wrong, you genuinely didn’t know how much you meant to me.”

“You’re right,” Sherlock said, his fingers clenching in the fabric of John’s jumper. He felt small. “I didn’t think you considered me a best friend until you told me so.”

John kissed his cheek. “You git.”

Sherlock grinned. “I know. But, if we had tried to get together back then, perhaps we would have fallen apart.”

John was silent for a moment. “You really think so?” he asked sadly.

Sherlock looked up. “I genuinely don’t know,” he admitted. “If we were in a relationship, and then I faked my death, wouldn’t that have been worse?”

John frowned deeply, almost grimacing. “God, yeah. Would you have still done that if we’d been together?”

That was a good question. He probably would have still gone through with the plan, but let John in on it. Or, maybe not? The version of him now would have let John in. In some ways, he felt like a different person since 2012. He had thought John would have stayed at Baker Street, but he moved out and found a fiance. He didn’t know John’s feelings as well back then. He didn’t John would have been so affected, but if they had a romantic relationship, would that have changed? “Like I said, I really don’t know. I don’t. If we’d been together, and you thought I died, would you have still moved out and found Mary?”

John looked stricken by the question. “God, no. Well, maybe I still would’ve moved out, because being here would have probably been even more painful, but I wouldn’t have started dating after you died.”

That somehow made Sherlock feel worse. If he had been ready back then, they could have--no. John said to stop beating himself up. This was their reality, and he had to live with it. “Oh.”

John cupped Sherlock’s jaw. “Stop overthinking it. The Moriarty bullshit was a bad situation, but it’s over. And, you’re right. There’s really no way to know how we would have acted if we’d gotten together then. But, we’re both definitely read now, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’d rather wait years for us to get to this point than for us to have gotten together too quickly and possibly broken up.” It looked like the conversation was unpleasant from him. John looked back at the clock on the bedside table. “It’s almost time to go.”

Sherlock nodded. “My revolver is my sock drawer.”

John went over to the dresser and retrieved it. “I’ll put it in my jacket pocket. Are you okay?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ve been worse.” He didn’t like this feeling of fear and exhaustion, but he figured that there was no point in stalling. “Let’s get ready.”

“Okay. Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

Mary was waiting for them outside of Speedy’s, wearing the same red coat she had on the tarmac (where she seemed way too please about Sherlock being sent away forever). She glared at them as they walked up to her. She had dark circles under her eyes, and the lines around her mouth were more pronounced than usual. She must not have slept last night.

She looked angry at both of them, but her eyes darted to John. “Hello, _husband_ ,” she said acidly.

“Hello,” John said darkly. “Want to go inside?”

“No,” she crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to play your little games. I want a damn explanation, right _now_.”

John shrugged. “Suit yourself. Let’s at least sit down.”

“Fine.”

They sat down at one of the tables outside of the cafe, Sherlock next to John, and Mary by herself on the other side of the table.

John put his hands on top of the table, folding them. “Listen, Mary--”

“You cheated on me,” she stated. She then looked at Sherlock with unabashed disgust.

Sherlock only narrowed his eyes at her. Actually seeing her replaced the little bit of fear he had with anger. She really did get under his skin. He would let John handle this, though, unless things got out of hand. John was an adult. He could do this.

John cleared his throat. “I did,” he confirmed. “I’m not proud of it. I never wanted to break our vows.”

“And yet you did,” she snapped, eyes vicious and snake-like. “I thought you were a better man than that, John.”

A flame of anger ignited in Sherlock’s gut. Sod keeping his mouth shut. “Don’t,” he said sharply, causing them both to look at him. “Don’t try to make John feel guilty. You’re in the wrong here.”

Her jaw dropped, affronted. “I’m wrong? _He_ was unfaithful to _me_.”

“You lied to him,” Sherlock retorted, “about everything from your name to your pregnancy. How could you expect him to stay with you after all of that? There are consequences to your actions, Mary.” His hands were balled into fists under the table. With John on his side, he was finally able to properly snap at her, and by god, did it feel good.

Before she could speak, John said, “He’s right. Mary, I don’t claim to be a great man, but I think I deserve a bit better than the shit you’ve done. Lying about a pregnancy, really?” John actually sounded upset. “I thought I was going to be a father, Mary.”

Sherlock placed a hand on his thigh reassuringly. He didn’t know that bothered John. Perhaps he’d ask him about it later.

For a split second, she had the decency to look guilty, the fire in her eyes wavering, but then she snarled, “The only reason why I did it was because I knew you really wanted to shag him all along!” she pointed a finger at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised in surprise at her outburst, but he said, “That excuses nothing.”

“It really doesn’t,” John agreed.

She looked shocked that they didn’t see her side of the story. “What was I supposed to do? You proposed to me, but went off with Sherlock almost every day. Do you know how that felt? You made me feel unloved, John.”

As much as he knew she was wrong, John did have a strong moral compass, and Sherlock could see the remorse start to form on his face. She was manipulating him. Sherlock had to help him.

“You could have talked to John about it like a normal person instead of telling a very serious lie,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, stay out of this, Sherlock,” she rolled her eyes.

“No,” John shook his head. “He has the right to speak. I brought him here because he’s always been important to our relationship.”

“This is what I’m talking about,” she said accusingly. “No matter what with us, it was always about Sherlock in the end.”

John’s fingers twitched on the table. “He’s been important to our marriage because _you’re_ the one who shot him. Our relationship could have never been the same after that, and you know it.”

She looked bored now. “Oh, you’re bringing that up again.”

“Of course I am!” John slammed his fist on the table, startling all three of them in the process. His fist shook and John took a couple deep breaths through his nose. Sherlock squeezed his thigh. Mary looked surprised, her large, dark eyes wide.

John spoke quieter, but the tone of his voice was lower. “It’s not some trivial thing. It’s not like I’m complaining about you forgetting to take the fucking rubbish out. You tried to kill my best friend.”

“It was surgery.” She looked at Sherlock. “You said so, yourself.”

“Only because I thought John would be happy if he stayed married to you,” he explained coolly. “You tried to kill me. You nearly succeeded.” She would have, if Sherlock hadn’t clawed his way back to life for John.

“I warned you not to get any closer,” she said. “Anyway, I told you I was sorry.”

“You’re not,” John said. “And you never told _me_ you were sorry for shooting my best friend, and acted like I was in the wrong when I didn’t want to talk to you.”

Mary huffed, looking mildly annoyed, then pursed her lips. She still didn’t apologize to John.

John shook his head, the fire leaving him and his shoulders slumping. “So many lies, and you never feel sorry for any of them. You’d lie to me about anything as long as it benefited you. Mary, how is that a healthy marriage?”

She cast her eyes downward. “It’s not,” she admitted. Her eyes flickered back up. “And you lied to me. That bottle, it was from you,” she looked at Sherlock, “wasn’t it?”

“It was,” he confirmed casually. He didn’t think it would have been appropriate, but the childish side of him wanted to smirk smugly at her. He held it back.

Her lip twitched. “I knew it.” She looked back at John. “I knew you were lying to me that night. How long has this,” she gestured at them, “been going on?”

“Officially? Only since yesterday,” John said. “He used his odd way of flirting with me for a few days before that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. If it hadn’t gone so well, he’d be furious with Mummy for her lame advice.

“‘Yesterday,’” Mary repeated. “So that _is_ why you didn’t come home.” Like John, the anger in her seemed to be diminishing, too.

John had the grace to look sorry about that. “It is.” They stared at each other.

Sherlock felt uncomfortable.

“I really didn’t want it to come to this,” John told her quietly. “When I proposed to you, I didn’t think any of this would happen.”

She nodded silently, looking down at the table. “You didn’t think Sherlock would have come back.”

Sherlock felt John tense slightly beneath his hand.

“No, I didn’t,” he said.

“If Sherlock had never gone away, would you have still proposed to me?” Mary asked bluntly.

John swallowed. “I don’t think we would have ever started dating.”

She seemed shocked by this, her face lifting, looking like she’d been slapped. Sherlock was surprised by his honesty.

“I stopped dating about a year after I moved into Baker Street, because I knew I couldn’t have a serious relationship as long as I lived with him,” John told her.

Sherlock looked down at his lap, suppressing a smile.

Her lips worked wordlessly. She swallowed and her head tilted, eyes darkening. “You never loved me,” she said slowly, as if it was just dawning on her. “I was just a replacement for him.”

If she were any other person, Sherlock thought that he would have felt a tad sorry for her. Although she was selfish, Sherlock knew that Mary did love John, and Sherlock knew how painful it felt to have unrequited feelings for John Watson.

John leaned forward on his elbows on the table, his voice growing quieter. “I did love you,” he said. “I don’t think I could love anyone more than him, and I’m sorry for that, but I was ready to commit myself to you and our wedding vows.” John sat back in the chair. “Until you shot him.”

Sherlock replayed those words in his mind, _I don’t think I could love anyone more than him._ He didn’t know how to react.

Mary’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what you want me to do about that, John. I can’t go back in time and change that,” she said, with an air of self-pity.

“That’s the point, Mary; it can’t be changed. That’s not something that ever goes away.” He paused. “Which is why I think it would be better for everyone if we got a divorce.”

Mary quickly looked down, and Sherlock wondered if she were actually hiding tears. Sherlock remembered her face, cold and stern, when she shot him, and when she threatened him when he was drugged up in a hospital bed, and he could not bring himself to feel an ounce of sympathy for her. He remembered how much she lied to John, and he felt schadenfreude.

She grimaced and looked up at them. She looked like she despised them. “ _Fine._ I deserve better than you, anyway. I deserve someone who doesn’t want to stuff his cock up his best friend’s arse 24/7.”

Sherlock stiffened and John growled, _“Watch it.”_

“Am I wrong?” she asked accusingly. “Am I supposed to believe you two just chatted last night?”

“That’s none of your fucking business, Mary,” John spat, the vein in his forehead bulging out.

Sherlock decided to step in. “Mary, you’re only making things worse for yourself. You lied to John, and he decided that he does not want to put up with it anymore. Nothing will change that. Even if he did not have feelings for me, what you did wouldn’t change. It’s over.”

She looked like she wanted to insult Sherlock, but then pressed her lips together. Instead, she asked, “Sherlock, why are there surveillance cameras, and why is one of your brother’s men lingering across the street?”

Sherlock looked, and he saw a man in a suit trying to appear inconspicuous by pretending to talk on the phone. Of course she would have noticed. “Just a precaution,” he said.

She actually looked insulted. “What, did you think I was going to show up and shoot you?”

“You’ve been known,” he drawled.

She was incredulous. “I told both of you that I intended to leave that life behind me, and I meant it.”

“You can’t blame us for preparing for the worst,” John said defensively.

She looked between the two of them, shaking her head. “You two are right bastards. You know what?” she stood up. “Fuck you. You’re meant for each other.”

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, we are.”

John flashed him a grin.

Mary looked like she wanted to vomit. She took off her wedding ring and slammed it down on the table with a clang. “Take it back.”

“I certainly don’t want it,” John almost laughed as he took off his ring, too.

Mary was furious. “Glad to see this is funny to you.”

“Mary, you don’t deserve my respect anymore. You did nothing but lie and try to keep Sherlock and I apart. That ends now.”

Her hands balled into fists. “I never want to see you again. Get your shit out of my house as soon as possible.”

“Will do,” John said simply.

Sherlock liked that an angry John was sometimes a smug John. Before she left, though, Sherlock warned, “If you ever try anything funny, with either of us, know that my brother’s people will hunt you down. You were able to get away with shooting me only because I told him to stay out of it. You will not be offered that same courtesy anymore.”

“I told you I’m done with that!” she shouted. Her eyes shot to John and she pointed at him. “I wanted to be married to you, John. I was content to be Mary Watson. I wanted us to have a life together. I was more than willing to live an ordinary life with you. I love you.”

John stood up, too, and crossed his arms with a sigh. “I loved you, too, once.”

Her face shattered.

John picked up their wedding rings from the table, looking at them in his palm. “But we could have never worked. If you hadn’t shot him, I think something would have ended our marriage, and nothing could stop me from wanting to be with him.”

It was difficult for Sherlock not to take John into his arms.

Mary recovered, and her face turned to cold steel. “You’re a disgrace. Goodbye, John.” She didn’t even look at Sherlock.

He was fine with that.

“Goodbye, Mary,” John said coldly.

Mary pushed the chair into the table roughly and walked away, and they watched her disappear down the street.

John’s fingers closed over the rings in his hands, and he stood there, staring at the ground.

Sherlock would give him a moment. It had been a difficult conversation to listen to, so he imagined John didn’t feel very happy right now. He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Mycroft, signalling that it was over. He truly believed it was _all_ over. Mary had seemed defeated. She said multiple times that she left the assassin life behind her, which was nonsense considering the Magnussen debacle, but perhaps, in her twisted mind, she really meant it.

John looked at Sherlock, eyes weary. “Well. That’s over.”

Sherlock stood up and placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “Let’s go up to the flat, okay? We can talk about it there in peace.”

John nodded. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're going to reflect on what happened in the next chapter. I think this story is winding down.


	13. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk about their feelings and cuddle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thank you so much for getting this story to 500 kudos!!!!!!!!  
> Sorry it took me a little long to get this out. I have a lot of projects with school, and, well, it's been a little hard for me to write fanfic lately because I'm not really happy being in the fandom right now. What I mean is, I still love this pairing, but the fandom is not really a positive environment for multiple reasons, and it's getting to me. I'm trying to get past it, though, because I love this show and don't want to let anything stop me from loving it. But there's a lot of negativity, and the thing is, I just do not want that in my life. I feel like I have enough on my plate, you know? I'm not blaming anyone for any posts; I'm just telling you all where I'm at and why this update took kind of long.  
> Basically, I'd be happy and in the mood to write, and then I'd see an upsetting post and close out of Google Docs for the day :P Like I said, though: I'm trying not to let it get to me so much. It's just difficult some days. But long live johnlock~~~~~~

They went back up to the flat in silence, and it felt like someone was grinding Sherlock’s skull at the center of his forehead, the aggravation from Mary giving him an intense headache. He wanted ibuprofen. They got inside, and John took off his coat and shoes and went straight to the kitchen. Sherlock thought he was going to make tea, but instead, he got a bottle of beer from the fridge.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it rather early in the afternoon to drink alcohol?”

“I don’t care,” John muttered, walking into the sitting room and sitting in his arm chair, sighing heavily.

Sherlock bit his lip. He took off his coat and scarf, looking at John carefully. “Are you okay?”

John shook his head. “I don’t really think so, no. Not right now.”

Sherlock shuffled over to his chair, sitting across from John gingerly. He watched John down some of his beer, the lines around his mouth deeper than they were this morning. John ran a hand through his hair, staring into space. Sherlock didn’t really know what to say, but figured that not talking about it was unwise. John was hurting. He wanted to heal him. “What are you thinking?” Sherlock asked.

John looked up at him. “That she’s an arsehole.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He wasn’t expecting that.

The corner of John’s lips turned up ever so slightly. “You’re surprised, aren’t you?”

“Well…” He coughed behind his fist. He...didn’t exactly _disagree_ with John’s assessment, but it was a rather blunt statement.

John shook his head. “Just, after all that, she still thought she was right, you know? She thought she had a good reason to shoot you and lie to me. She acted like she was a victim because I got tired of her crap. I guess--” he rubbed his face with his free hand, “I guess I wasn’t a good husband to her, or fiancé, but she’s no saint.”

“Certainly not,” Sherlock said. “I’ve told you before, John: anything you’ve done to her that you feel guilt over is nothing compared to her deeds. I imagine you were a spectacular partner, compared to how she treated you.”

John nodded, accepting this. “Yeah. Yeah, yeah, you know what? You’re right. I’m not the best partner in the world, but Christ, I’m a lot better than she gave me credit for.”

“I agree, and have personal experience to back that up.”

John smiled at him then. “You’re biased.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s true.”

John crossed his leg over his knee, starting to relax a little. “Hmm. Well, I’m glad you think so.” Smile fading to a frown, he said, “She was right, though. If she didn’t do everything she did, I would feel more sorrier for her. I did treat her like a replacement. I met her when you were gone, and I still didn’t think I could have you when you came back.”

Sherlock looked down at his hands. “May I confess something?”

“Go right ahead.”

Memories of John’s wedding, one of the worst nights of his life, flooded into his mind. These thoughts seemed pathetic before, and perhaps they still were, but he wanted to tell John. “When you married her...It was a nice ceremony, but I hated it. I wish I could have replaced her right then and there.”

John’s eyes were filled with compassion. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. If it makes you feel any better, when you were making your speech, I was sitting there thinking I’d made a huge mistake.”

Sherlock couldn’t look at him. The memories were too painful. He swallowed past the lump in his throat.

John then reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his and Mary’s wedding rings. His chest moved up and down with a deep sigh. “It still hurts,” he said quietly.

Sherlock’s heart ached and he leaned forward in his chair. “John--”

“I know it shouldn’t,” he stared at the dull, gold bands. “It was a terrible marriage. I’m glad it’s over, but. I dunno. I remember thinking we’d be happy together.” He looked up guiltily. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

Sherlock reached out and touched his knee. “John, listen to me. I’m happy that you love me, obviously, and that you want to be with me instead of Mary, but I’m not glad that this happened to you. I want to help you through this.”

John swallowed, blue eyes dark and tender. “I know you do.” He looked down at the rings again. “I remember dreaming of getting married as a kid. I know that’s supposed to be for girls and not blokes, but you said I’m a romantic, yeah? I guess I always have been. I didn’t imagine I’d get divorced from an assassin who tried to kill the real love of my life.”

Sherlock didn’t know much about John’s childhood, but suddenly he pictured a blond-haired little boy staring into space with a shining grin on his face, dreaming of being a military hero with a wife at home. Sherlock was thankful that he was the one John had in his life, instead, but he felt sorry for the image of the innocent child in his mind, not yet broken by war, by Sherlock’s jump, or by Mary. Sherlock thought of himself as a child, before he was hurt by Redbeard, and thought that he and John would have been good friends back then.

“I’m sorry, John,” he said.

“What should I do with these?” he asked, referring to the rings.

“Whatever you want.”

John thought about it, and then stood up, Sherlock’s hand falling from his knee. He put down his beer and went over to the fireplace. He started a fire, and threw the rings into the flames.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped.

John wiped his hands together, as if he had just thrown away something dirty. “That takes care of it. So much time and money spent on our wedding. What a waste.” He looked at Sherlock. He looked like he was struggling to smile. “So now it’s over.”

Sherlock’s lips snapped closed. He knew John wasn’t okay yet. Sherlock knew that he loved it when John held him. Maybe John needed to be held? Sherlock extended his arms.

John looked at him curiously.

Sherlock flushed. “Well, don’t leave me hanging. Will you come here or not?”

John blinked. “Oh. Right.” He took a step towards the chair. “Am I supposed to sit on your lap like you’re Father Christmas?” he joked.

Sherlock shifted a little so there was space on the chair.

John sat in the chair, his left leg on the cushion and his right leg facing up, on his side his body twisted a little so they could both fit.

It would have been better if John sat in his lap, but Sherlock kept quiet and hugged John, their cheeks pressed together. John hugged him back, arms around his middle, and Sherlock felt the flutter of his eyelashes as his eyes closed. “I love you,” he told John.

“I love you, too,” he said, turning his head and resting his cheek on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock kissed the top of his head. Come to think of it, he really did want to hold John in his lap. “John, it’s a little tight. I think it would be easier if I were Father Christmas.”

“You’re saying you want me to sit in your lap?”

“Yes.”

It was a testament to how tired John was, that he shifted into Sherlock’s lap without a snarky remark, burying his face in the crook of his neck once he was settled. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

Sherlock’s heart beat quickly and he held John against his chest. John looked small in his arms. He felt unbelievably protective. He rubbed John’s back, nervous that he was doing it wrong, but John said nothing, so it must have been okay.

“She still didn’t apologize for anything,” John murmured.

“No, she didn’t.”

“I feel tired, but free. I don’t have to kiss her or sleep in the same bed with her ever again. I don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Sherlock hummed. He spoke with caution, “John, may I ask you something.”

“Of course,” he said into his neck.

“Did you want to be a father?”

John tensed in his arms. He sat up, still in Sherlock’s lap, but looking at him now. He looked troubled. “I don’t know,” he muttered, looking down at Sherlock’s chest. “At first, when you deduced it at the wedding, I was completely shocked. We didn’t try for it, and I’m a bloody doctor, so I should have been suspicious. But I wasn’t, because I didn’t think you were wrong, and I didn’t think she’d lie like that, back then.” He started to play with one of the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt, not intending to tease, but as a distraction. “To be honest, I couldn’t picture myself as a father. Not really. I shout too much. I have a horrible temper. I like going on cases with you and routinely facing danger. I didn’t necessarily want kids, but...After time passed, I started to really think about it, and the idea became nice.” He smiled bitterly. “I started to look forward to it a little. Get excited. But she shot you, and I started to hate her, and when she said she had a miscarriage, God forgive me, I was relieved. I saw it as one less thing tying me down to her.” He looked at Sherlock miserably. “I’m a terrible person, aren’t I?”

“Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “Don’t feel guilty over a child that never existed.”

John’s mouth twisted to the side. “I guess you’re right.”

Sherlock cupped John’s cheek. “I’m sorry, John. I didn’t know you felt badly over this.”

John leaned into his touch. “’S okay. Nothing to do about it. Besides, I’d rather be happy with you than chained to Mary with a child, especially when I don’t feel confident I would have been a good father, anyway.”

“You would have been excellent,” Sherlock told him. “You always come through for those you love.”

John smiled softly. “You’re a sweetheart.”

Sherlock wanted to hide his face in his hands, but that would have required letting go of John, so he ducked his head as best he could, letting go of John’s cheek.

“I never expected you to be so bashful,” John commented. “You don’t get like this when I praise your intelligence.”

Sometimes it unnerved him how well John could read him. “I don’t need anyone to tell me I’m a genius. I appreciate when you do it, but it’s not news to me. This is...different.”

“No one’s ever called you a sweetheart before, huh?”

His eyes darted to the side. “Correct.”

“Well, I’ll just have to tell you how lovely you are, inside and out, every day until you don’t blush and hide your face anymore.”

Sherlock wanted to crawl into the seat cushion. “I doubt that will ever happen,” he mumbled.

“Hm. I’ll do it anyway, though. Just in case,” John winked.

“John,” Sherlock swatted his arm, feeling really embarrassed now, but in the best way possible. He grabbed John by the forearms and pulled him back down into a hug, feeling overwhelmed.

“Oof,” John giggled. “All right, my blushing sloth, I’ll stop teasing you.”

“‘Blushing sloth’?!” Sherlock sputtered. “What the hell are you on about?”

John laughed heartily into his chest. “Sloths have got long arms that latch onto things. You blush a lot. You’re my blushing sloth.”

Sherlock groaned in agony and squeezed John tightly to get him to shut up.

“Sherlock! You’re going to squeeze the life out of me.”

“That’s the point.” A sloth. _Honestly! What nonsense!_

“You bugger,” John bit his shoulder playfully, though Sherlock was still wearing a shirt and suit jacket, so it didn’t hurt at all. He giggled against, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock’s neck. “I love laughing with you. Mary and I never had fun like this. I don’t think I’ve ever had as much fun with anyone else, actually.”

“Likewise,” Sherlock said, his embarrassment dying down.

John tilted his head up and kissed Sherlock’s jaw. “I think I’m starting to feel a little better. I feels like the end of a nightmare, finally. All that’s left is signing divorce papers. And getting the rest of my stuff from her house.”

“Later,” Sherlock said, yawning, suddenly feeling tired from their confrontation with Mary.

“I don’t have any more clothes here, Sherlock.”

“You can wear mine.”

“They’ll be too big.”

“Whose fault is that?”

John sighed, shifting to look at him. “You git.” He yawned. “God, that wore me out.”

“Want to lie down on the sofa? I find myself tired, too.”

John smiled into his shoulder. “Sherlock Holmes, wanting to laze about? Who are you, and what have you done with the real Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I do get tired like every other person, John. Besides, my back is beginning to hurt in this chair.”

“Okay, let’s get up.”

They moved to the sofa. Sherlock got there first, flopping down on his stomach and groaning dramatically into one of the throw pillows, his headache not as painful as it was when they first got in, but still pulsing behind his eyeballs.

“Where am I supposed to sit?” John asked, arms crossed, staring at his long body in amusement.

“My head hurts,” Sherlock said in place of a reply.

“It does? Want medicine?”

Sherlock made a negative sound in his throat. Sitting up to swallow a pill and some water was too much effort.

“Well, I can rub your scalp, if that’ll help?”

Sherlock brightened up. “Really?”

“Yeah. Maybe it’ll work if you put your head in my lap?”

Sherlock sat up, allowing John to sit down, and then placed his head on John’s muscular thighs, looking up at him. “Hello.”

“Hello,” John smiled. “Comfortable?”

“Surprisingly so.” His eyelashes fluttered when John’s strong fingers entered his mass of curls, rubbing his scalp gently. He let out a long sigh and melted like butter into John’s lap and the sofa, his spine tingling from the sensation of his skin and hair being lightly kneaded. This was good. This was better than any pill. The pain slowly started to go away in his head, and Sherlock found that his eyes were closed. He heard the front door open, but couldn’t be bothered to open his eyes.

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

Sherlock didn’t feel like acknowledging her presence, but was irritated when John’s hands paused.

“Hello,” John said uneasily.

Sherlock made a grunt of displeasure. “Come on, John.”

John’s hands went back to his hair. “He has a headache,” he explained to Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock heard her sigh. “I would be pleased for you two, but you’re married, John!”

Sherlock smirked.

“Uh, well, not anymore,” John cleared his throat. “Not really. Just have to sign the papers.”

“What? You and Mary are getting divorced?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock murmured. He felt smug.

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson said, sounding a little awkward. “I’m sorry, John.”

“Don’t be.” He paused. “She’s the one who shot Sherlock.”

“What?!” she squawked.

Sherlock felt the sudden urge to bury his face into John’s stomach, but thought it would have been considered too much in front of Mrs. Hudson, so he settled for leaning into John’s touch.

“And she was never pregnant,” John went on. “She lied to me.”

“That woman! I served her tea! Well, it’s a good thing you left her, John! I must say I’m not entirely surprised, though.”

“You’re not?” John asked.

“No. To be honest, John, she always rubbed me the wrong way. I didn’t want to tell you before, of course.”

Sherlock wished he could have seen Mrs. Hudson’s face as she said this, but his eyes were beginning to feel heavy. He felt John sigh.

“I don’t blame you.”

“Does that mean you’re moving back in with Sherlock?” she asked bluntly.

“Absolutely.”

Sherlock’s chest felt warm.

“Now that I know the situation, I’ll say it’s about bloody time you two sorted all of this out!”

Sherlock did open his eyes and turned his head to look at her, then. “What do you mean?”

She was beaming. “Oh, don’t play dumb, Sherlock. I knew you two would only need one bedroom one day.”

Sherlock and John exchanged glances, then their eyes darted away, Sherlock plopping back down on John’s lap to hide his pink cheeks. “Yes, well. Why are you even here?”

“Oh, I was just going to ask if you needed tea, but I’ll leave you two alone! I’ll ask for details later.”

“Um,” John half-coughed and half-laughed behind his fist.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said firmly.

“Bye, boys!”

Sherlock heard the door shut and she was gone.

John started giggling, face lighting up like the sun. “Well, that was something.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Resume the massage. Please.”

John did fingers working on his skin and combing through his thick hair. “Of course she knew,” he said, voice tinged with amusement. “I should have known.”

“She’s not getting any details,” he muttered petulantly.

“Hush, she means no harm.”

“Do _you_ want to tell her about our sex life?”

“I think she just meant how we got together, Sherlock.”

“We’re talking about Mrs. Hudson, John.”

His hands stopped moving. “You’re right.”

“Told you so.” He yawned, turning on his side, pressing his forehead against John’s stomach. He was warm. It was an odd day, but they got the Mary ordeal done and over with. It needed to happen before they could truly be happy together, he knew. Sherlock smiled to himself, thinking of all the afternoons they would have like this, sitting together in peace. He found that he quite liked peace now, compared to his younger days. He felt John’s hands slowing down a little after awhile.

“John, you’re tired.”

“Kind of,” he agreed.

“Come down here.”

John did, and although it was a tight fit on the sofa, they lied next to each other. John blinked at him lethargically, and Sherlock kissed his forehead. John smiled and wrapped an arm around his waist. They had done enough talking for the afternoon. Now, they could rest. They were done with the shadow that clouded their lives since the night Sherlock came back from the dead.

Or so they thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I thought about not having Mary get back at them in any way, but I don't know, this story feels a little anti-climatic as is? I think this story will only have one or two more chapters, though.  
> You know, I started this story before the U.S. election and season 4. It feels REALLY weird thinking about that lol  
> EDIT: Ugggh sorry for the typos. It was 1:30 in the morning when I finished this lol


	14. Revenge and the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary gets back at Sherlock, but she doesn't win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugggggggggggh sorry this took so long! I started writing other things and didn't know what the fuck to do with this. So this chapter goes to some dark places, but our boy will be okay in the end.  
> I considered breaking this into 2 parts, but I really wanted to get this done, especially because you waited for over a month.  
> EDIT: expect violence in this chapter!

Sherlock felt John kissing his bare shoulder, and he groaned and buried his face into his pillow. “Go away, I’m sleeping,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes closed, shivering at how John’s lips tickled his skin.

“Good morning to you, too,” John said in amusement. “Glad to see you’re in a good mood, Sleeping Beauty.”

Sherlock would have rolled his eyes if they weren’t closed. “You can’t expect me to want to be awake after you kept me up last night.”

John giggled. “Sherlock, you slept for ten hours.”

“Your point?”

“All I did was give you a blow job.”

Sherlock flushed and he grumbled “Yes, well. I had never experienced that particular type of stimulus before.”

“If that’s your roundabout way of saying you never had a blow job before--one: I knew that, and two: I didn’t need ten hours of sleep after my first.”

Sherlock’s face grew warmer. “Problem?”

“Not at all, Sherlock,” John said in a sing-song voice.

“Done making fun of me?”

“I’m just teasing, Sherlock. You know I love you, and for the record, you were incredibly hot last night.”

Sherlock smiled, and thinking about it all made his cock stir against John’s thigh.

John laughed. “Oh my god, seriously?”

“Seriously,” Sherlock opened his eyes.

John grinned at him, face soft in the morning sunlight. “Hey.”

“Hello.”

“I was going to leave for Mary’s soon, but…” he cupped Sherlock’s length.

Sherlock grimaced at the mention of her name. “She can wait.” John was officially moving back in today, but Sherlock wanted to spend time with him before he went to get his stuff.

John looked over his shoulder at the clock on the bedside table. “Well, I suppose we have some time. And it’s not like you take very long.”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock glared at him, which wasn’t very effective with his cock in John’s hand.

John just kissed him through his giggles. “You’re so indignant all the time.”

“You have morning breath,” Sherlock retorted.

“Liar. I already brushed my teeth.”

“Then you didn’t do a very good job.”

John pinched his cheek. “You’re so full of shit.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t have looked very serious with the skin of his cheek being in between John’s forefinger and thumb.

John let go of his face and kissed his cheek. He began stroking Sherlock while planting kisses on his jaw, lips warm and wet (he must have licked them before Sherlock woke up).

Sherlock’s breath hitched, and he didn’t really know what to do with his hands, so he held onto John’s shoulders. He liked doing that; John’s shoulders were broad and strong, and grabbing them kept Sherlock tethered to the earth and out of his own head. He looked down at his cock in John’s hand and watched it get harder, caught between feeling bashful and aroused.

“There you are,” John murmured, his cheeky grin evident in his voice. “Feel good?”

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded, closing his eyes in embarrassment and nuzzling his face into John’s hair by his temple. John’s hand was warm, but he was going too slowly. “Faster, John,” he said into his ear.

John stroked him faster and shifted to kiss him on the lips. He opened his mouth against Sherlock’s, deepening the kiss, and sucked lightly on his bottom lip. “Mmm, you just woke up. I thought you’d want it slower,” John said against his mouth.

Sherlock made a sound of negation and went back to kissing him, feeling himself grow harder in John’s hand. His nipples were hard and his nerves were singing with pleasure, but he needed more pressure (god, John was right. He really didn’t last very long, did he? Not in the morning, at least). “John, can I?”

John kept kissing the corner of his mouth and face. “Hm? Can you what?”

He gulped. “Move my hips?”

John grunted and stroked him harder, nipping the underside of his jaw. “Of course you fucking can. Do what makes you feel good.”

Sherlock thrust into John’s hand, letting out a strangled moan. John’s hand was so warm and tight but not too tight and god, he wished he could think clearly to savor all of these details, but his mind was pudding. He was breathing hard and his skin felt hot and damp with sweat, and Sherlock pumped his hips so roughly that he actually rocked John’s body in the process

“Easy there,” John soothed with a peck to his cheekbone. “Easy.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock whispered, slowing down a little.

“Don’t be, ’s okay,” he kissed his ear. John’s hand curled into his hair and _pulled_.

Sherlock moaned loudly, hips losing coordination in sloppy, hard thrusts.

He felt John’s lips pull up into a smirk. “Hey, Sherlock?”

“Yeah?” he breathed. One thrust felt particularly good and his eyes rolled back into his head and he groaned. His balls were tingling.

“You like fucking my hand?” John asked roughly.

“Uh huh,” Sherlock said, and if he had any self-awareness, he would have winced at his response. But his cock was leaking too much for any bit of self-awareness.

John teethed at his earlobe. Then, in a rush of hot breath against Sherlock's ear, he whispered, “What if you were fucking me?”

Sherlock spluttered and coughed as his orgasm overtook him, his hot release shooting in the hold of John’s hand. He gasped with wide eyes as he rode out his orgasm, hips jerking.

John let go of him, smiling smugly. He casually got a tissue from the box on the bedside table and wiped his hand as Sherlock gulped for air and trembled. Once his hand was clean, he hugged Sherlock and kissed the top of his head. “That threw you off guard, didn’t it?”

Sherlock instinctively nuzzled his face in the crook of John’s warm neck. “I hate you,” he mumbled.

“I love turning you on,” John said simply.

Sherlock sighed dramatically, but the idea of... _penetrating_ John...He spaced out. John was physically smaller than he was. Sherlock could wrap his whole body around John, hold him, roll his hips and thrust...thrust _into John._

“Did I break your brain?” John asked.

“Mmm.”

“As much as I’d love to stay, I really need to go to Mary’s.”

Sherlock whined in protest, pressing himself against John. “Gather your belongings as quickly as possible. I want you back here.”

John snorted. “Trust me, Sherlock, I don’t want to spend much time over there.”

Sherlock yawned, feeling sleepy after another orgasm.

“You know, if you came with me, it would go faster,” John told him for the sixth time in the past twenty-four hours.

“I’m tired,” Sherlock said, “and I can’t be arsed to see her.”

He would have gone with John, but honestly, it was much too early to get out of bed. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table: 8:07 in the morning. It was an _ungodly_ time. The only time it was acceptable to be out of bed before 10:30, the earliest, in Sherlock’s book, was during a case. Besides, he got Mycroft to do a favor for him and get some of his men to help John move his things so, most importantly, everyone could keep an eye on Mary (although she seemed genuinely defeated a few days ago outside of Speedy’s), and so John could be fully settled into their flat as quickly as possible.

“I’m not your servant,” Mycroft had told Sherlock over the phone.

“I’ll take Mummy and Dad to the theater next time.”

“Deal.”

And that settled it.

John laughed. “You’re a brat. She might not even be there. She doesn’t want to see me at all.”

“The audacity,” he muttered with disgust.

John sat up, ruffling Sherlock’s hair. He stretched, the sunlight from the window catching on his golden chest hair. He sighed. “I’m going to get dressed and leave. It shouldn’t take long. You just take your little after-sex nap.”

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock stretched lazily.

“I love you,” John said.

“I love you, too. See you soon.”

* * *

John had all of his boxes in 221B by 2:30 in the afternoon.

“Mary was there,” he told Sherlock. “When she actually decided to look at me, she glared at me.”

“What was she doing all that time?” Sherlock asked.

“Reading in on her sofa. She didn’t say a word the entire time, and you know what? Neither did I. I didn’t have anything to say to her.”

“She’ll never admit to being wrong,” Sherlock muttered. “She’ll believe she was wronged by us until her grave.”

John sighed. “You’re right about that. Hopefully, I’ll never have to see her again.”

“You shouldn’t have to, since Mycroft is sending her the divorce papers.” For that favor, Sherlock had to attend Christmas dinner this year to please his parents. He would do it for John. Plus, he sort of liked the idea of bringing John to his parents’ house this year as his partner, when this past Christmas, he and Mary made up in his parents’ sitting room.

“I know.” John looked tired, but pleased. “I’ll be glad when all of this is over. Help me unpack?”

As Sherlock helped unpack John’s things, he couldn’t shake a strange, ominous feeling off his chest. He couldn’t explain it, and didn’t want to worry or upset John, so he let it go.

* * *

Next week, John and Mary signed the divorce papers.

“Well, that’s it,” John smiled at him, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “I’m not attached to Mary Morstan in any way, and I can be completely yours. Well, I was already, but you know what I mean.”

It felt too easy. Mary seemed genuine when they confronted her, but she was good at fooling both of them. She tried to kill Sherlock just to keep a secret; would she really give John up this easily?

John’s smile faded. “You’re not happy.”

“I am,” Sherlock protested. “I’d wanted you to divorce her for a long time.” _Since your wedding night._

“Okay, but I know your happy face by now, and this isn’t it.”

“I’m happy on the inside.”

John sighed. “Sherlock, I thought we were going to stop lying to each other.”

Sherlock felt guilty. John was right. He couldn’t keep hiding things now that they were in a relationship. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong. I have an uneasy feeling that refuses to go away.”

“Uneasy about what?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “That things are too good to be true.”

John kissed the side of his neck, the farthest he could reach without leaning up and standing on his toes. “Hey now, don’t be like that. It’s okay now, Sherlock,” he said sincerely, eyes boring into his.

Sherlock wanted to believe him.

One of John’s hands smoothed over his chest, stopping at his heart. He bit the inside of his cheek, looking thoughtful. “I know--don’t take this the wrong way--I know you’re not really used to things going right for you.”

That was an understatement. His heart gave a pang, but John cupped his chin and placed his thumb on Sherlock’s lower lip.

“Don’t be upset,” he said softly. “I’m trying to tell you that’s all over now,” he gently ran his thumb over his lip. “I’m here for you, Sherlock, one-hundred percent.”

Sherlock felt his lips pull up slightly. “You were always there for me, John,” he said, and then pressed a tiny kiss to John’s thumb.

“Not as much as I could have been,” John said seriously, “and I’m sorry for that.”

Sherlock shook his head, and John’s hand fell and cupped the side of his neck instead. “What did we say about beating ourselves up?” Sherlock reminded him.

John grinned. “Force of habit.”

“I hear you.”

John reached up and smoothed back the curls from his forehead. “Here, I know what’ll take your mind off things. Want to go to bed?”

“I’m not tired.”

John looked like he wanted to throttle him.

“I’m kidding,” Sherlock grinned.

“You git. Come on.”

* * *

A couple days later, Sherlock was walking home from getting the shopping (well, getting condoms and biscuits, but he thought that counted) when he heard a _pssst!_

Sherlock’s head whipped around and he saw one of the members of his homeless network. What was her name again? “Oh, hello,” he said. “You were looking for me?”

“I was,” she said, playing with a loose thread on her tattered sweater. “I have information that might interest you.”

Sherlock looked her up and down curiously. “Do you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

“Yeah. But,” she looked around, “I don’t want to say it out here on the sidewalk. Just one step in here,” she gestured to the alley beside her.

Sherlock almost laughed. Did she think he was an idiot? No, even an idiot could see how suspicious this was. “An alley? How convenient,” he said sardonically.

“Wait,” she held up her hands, “before you get mad, it has to do with Mrs. Watson--or, now, Ms. Morstan.”

Sherlock hoped his face didn’t betray his surprise. He looked at this girl more carefully. Her body language conveyed anxiety, but she didn’t look like she was lying. Should he trust her? He couldn’t see any indication of a weapon on her person. He never had a member of his network attack him before, but this was odd because he wasn’t on a case, and he only interacted with his network on a case. He would be cautious, but this girl was quite a bit shorter and weaker than he, so he didn’t think she was a threat. Besides, he never told any of them about Mary, so it couldn’t be that this girl--Amy, Amy was her name--was making up a lie to get his attention.

Sherlock considered walking away, but he had to know. “How do you know who Mary is?”

“She could be watching,” Amy said in a hushed tone. “We need to get out of sight!”

He didn’t think she could harm him in any way, and he was irresistibly curious. “You have two minutes,” he said firmly. “I’m busy.”

“It’ll only take a moment!” she said, face lighting up. She backed up a few feet into the alley, not going all the way in, but giving him enough room to enter.

Sherlock felt very uncomfortable with the shopping bag containing condoms in his hand, but he went inside the alley anyway, enough to be hidden from the view of anyone casually passing by.

Amy looked up at him. “She’s coming for you, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock ignored the pang of fear which hit his chest. “How do you know this? I never told any of you about Mary.”

“I know because she told me,” Amy said.

This was making less sense by the second, and Sherlock’s heart was beating fast. “She told you?” Suddenly, Sherlock felt something small but sharp jab the side of his neck, and he dropped the plastic bag.

“For a genius,” said a female voice by his ear, “you make really stupid decisions.”

Alarmingly quickly, all of the strength left Sherlock’s muscles, and he fell backwards into someone’s arms. His head felt too heavy to support and it lolled back, and he looked up into the smiling face of Mary Morstan.

“Amy--” he croaked. Why did she betray him? He never did anything to her.

“I can see your brain struggling,” Mary looked down at him with a fake pout. “It’s simple, Sherlock. I offered her money to get you where I wanted you.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Amy’s voice came from in front of him.

But Sherlock didn’t comprehend any of this as whatever drug Mary injected him with made his brain feel like it was stuffed with cotton, and his eyes closed on their own accord. He couldn’t see or move his mouth to speak, but he wasn’t fully unconscious yet. He felt himself being moved and his long legs were being dragged.

“Oh, don’t worry!” Mary said in a cheerful voice. “He’s just my boyfriend--had to much to drink!”

“You sure he’s okay?” someone asked.

“He always drinks too much!” Mary said in exasperation. “He texted me to come get him before he passed out!”

The voices around him were becoming garbled, and the effects of the drug put him under.

* * *

Sherlock jolted awake with a shout when ice water was dumped on him.

Mary was standing over him with an empty bucket, looking disgusted. “It’s about time. You didn’t wake up even when I punched you.”

His cheekbone hurt and his head was swimming. It felt like waves were rolling through his stomach and he closed his eyes with a grimace.

“Oh god, don’t tell me you’re going to be sick,” Mary sneered. “You were a junkie. Shouldn’t you be used to this?”

Sherlock took deep breaths, and when he tried to bring his hands to his mouth, he realized they were bound behind his back. He pulled at his constraints and realized they were handcuffs. He opened his eyes and looked down. His ankles were handcuffed together, too. His body felt weak but heavy, like led. _Don’t panic._ Fighting lingering blurriness in his vision, he looked at Mary again. “Amy--”

She rolled her eyes, tossing the bucket aside. “I told you, Sherlock. I simply offered her money. She’s homeless and she needed it. Simple. John told me about your network before, and I thought at least one of them would be able to help me, so I picked one that seemed particularly vulnerable.”

Sherlock’s mind was sluggish, and he couldn’t think of a response before his body shook from the cold water.

“Got nothing to say? Good.” She walked forward, bent down, and grabbed the hair at the top of his head, pulling roughly and forcing Sherlock to look at her. He grit his teeth in pain and tried to squirm, but she banged his head hard against the wall behind him. “We were supposed to have an agreement,” she said darkly, large eyes piercing into his. “You made a vow, too, to be there for me and John. Was _fucking_ him--” she slammed his head against the wall again “--your way of being there for me?”

The back of Sherlock’s head hurt and his heartbeat was pounding in his ears. The harsh force to his head only made his vision waver more, and he realized he was breathing out of his mouth. He didn’t know what Mary gave him--he couldn’t think--but it must have been strong. Despite the pain and the cold, he felt like he could pass right out again. He could only stare dumbly at Mary, at her eyes filled with steel and hatred.

She banged his head again. “Answer me!”

Sherlock’s breath quivered as he inhaled through his mouth and his eyes squeezed shut. His mind put together a coherent thought. “You broke your vow to John,” he said weakly. “So I broke mine”

She released the fistful of hair and Sherlock’s head dropped, his chin hitting his chest. It took him this long to realize he was in Mary’s house.

Mary slapped him hard across the face, the _smack_ of her hand against his skin loud in the sitting room. “You bastard.”

“Why are we here?” Sherlock asked, raising his head slowly, cheek stinging. The image of Mary was blurry in front of his eyes. “It wasn’t smart to bring me here.” His body was regularly shivering from the ice water.

“I don’t care anymore, Sherlock,” she said tiredly. “I was serious when I said I left the assassin life behind me, and I would do anything to keep John Watson. But, he doesn’t want me, so what’s the point?” A flash of sadness appeared in her eyes. “Mary Watson was the only life worth living.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop from grimacing. “You didn’t treat him right.”

The sadness was replaced by fire. “You need to learn how to keep your mouth shut!” she grabbed him by the collar, and Sherlock realized he didn’t have his coat on. “You always have to have the last word, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s face hurt but he glared at her. “You can’t handle John loving me more than you.”

Mary kicked him in his ribcage, the toe of her high heel feeling like a knife.

Sherlock gasped and tried foolishly to stand up, but Mary kicked him again and sent him back to the floor. “You’re handcuffed and drugged,” Mary laughed at him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

His abdomen hurt. He was feeling increasingly alarmed. “You said you didn’t want to see us again.”

Mary looked annoyed. “This is your problem, Sherlock. You trust people too easily. You went into a dark alley with a girl you barely know, for Christ’s sake! You’re an _idiot_!”

Sherlock was cold and his his heart was tingling with anxiety. She was right, though. He acted like he was cynical, but he thought a former assassin who tried to kill him before would have let him off the hook. He swallowed. “You’re going to kill me,” he whispered.

“Good job, genius,” she said brightly. She let go of his collar, and he fell back against the wall. She only hit him a few times, but he was exhausted. She looked down at him with all of the repulsion in the world. “As I said, Mary Watson was the only life worth living. I can’t live that life ever again, and it’s all because of you. I have no friends or family because of my former life. I have nothing to lose, Sherlock,” she said, her lipsticked lips pulling up into a smirk. “I don’t care if I get caught. I want you dead and I want John heartbroken. Actually, I don’t think he’d survive your death a second time.”

It was the criminals who had nothing to lose that always scared Sherlock the most. The ones who feared imprisonment could be manipulated. It was clear that Mary was serious. Sherlock felt an awful combination of lethargy and spine-tingling anxiety. He couldn’t escape or reason with her. She almost killed him once. Nothing would stop her from doing it now. John. He might never see John again. Even though he just tried moving, Sherlock started squirming again, panic rising in his gut.

“Really, you’re trying again?” she scoffed. Mary punched him right in the nose without a moment’s hesitation.

Sherlock cried out, pain exploding at the bridge of his nose. Did she break it? He gritted his teeth together, suppressing a yelp, his voice coming out in a low groan. His nose pulsed painfully with each of his heartbeats. “How’re you gonna kill me?”

Mary flexed her hand, her knuckles reddening, seeming annoyed that the punch hurt her hand. “I want to hurt you before I kill you. I want to rough you up, then I’ll strangle you,” she said coldly, not a trace of compassion or empathy in her voice or expression.

Fear coursed through his veins and Sherlock’s fight or flight instinct kicked in. Against all rationality, he tried moving again, falling onto his side and trying to wiggle away.

Mary snickered. “Look at you! You’re pathetic.” She grabbed the chain linking the handcuffs binding his wrists and pulled him backwards. Sherlock struggled to break free from her hold, but she threw him on the ground on his front and started kicked his side repeatedly. Each sharp jab made Sherlock grunt in pain. He felt weak and helpless on the floor. He tried getting to his knees so he could stand, but Mary grabbed his hair and smashed his forehead against the wooden floor.

“Give it up!” she hissed into his ear. “You can’t cheat death this time.”

Sherlock’s ears were ringing and his nose felt wet. He must have been bleeding. All he could think of was John, how he wasn’t going to see him again, how John was probably going to feel guilty about his murder and drink himself to death. But he couldn’t save himself this time, so he couldn’t save John. His eyes stung with tears. _John, I’m sorry._ He was lightheaded and each shiver made his fresh bruises ache more.

“You should have known your place,” Mary cooed into his ear, pushing roughly at his shoulder so he rolled onto his back. She stomped down onto his stomach with her heel with a ugly, twisted frown.

Sherlock coughed and he instinctively tried to clutch his stomach, but his hands only strained against the handcuffs behind his back, pressed to the floor.

Mary stared down at him, growing angrier by the second, and she kicked him hard in the groin.

Sherlock yelled out, piercing pain erupting. Was that really necessary?!

“Let’s see if you can fuck John with that now,” she kicked him there again.

A tear left Sherlock’s eye and he rolled onto his side, whimpering. It fucking _hurt._ It hurt more than his probably-broken nose. Speaking of which, he felt blood slowly making its way down his face. _John, help me!_ his mind screamed. Did John even know he was missing? How long was he passed out? Sharp waves of pain were pulsing through his groin.

“I’m getting bored of this,” she said impatiently, apparently unimpressed by him crying on her floor. “I thought this would be more fun, but I just want to kill you.”

Sherlock dimly thought that was one of the main differences between Moriarty and Mary. Moriarty loved games. Mary wanted to do things as quickly and cleanly as possible. Even taking the time to beat him was unusual for her.

Sherlock could only see her feet and legs because he was on his side, and his head was pounding too much for him to look up at her. He felt something on his forehead, like blood, and wondered if Mary smashed his head harder than he thought. It would explain the ringing and the nausea. His stomach felt like bile was sloshing around, and--god, it was all coming up. His esophagus burned suddenly and he spit up blood. It must have been from the kicks to his abdomen.

She kicked him again and he grunted loudly. “Great, now you’re getting blood on my carpet,” she said in irritation.

Sherlock was hurt and weak and his head was fuzzy, and he felt like he was going to pass out again. “John,” he whispered.

“John’s not here!” Mary shouted.

Sherlock closed his eyes. Everything was beginning to spin, and he would hack up more than blood if he kept his eyes open any longer. He heard Mary walk away from him for a moment, and he sat there with his limbs aching. The blood from his nose dripped down onto the seam of his lips. _John. John. John._

He must have been saying John’s name aloud, because he felt a sharp blow to his mouth.

“Shut _up_ about John!”

Sherlock felt a rush of warm in his mouth and it tasted metallic. Then, before he could even react beyond whimpering and squirming, he felt something start to choke him. It wasn’t hands. It felt like fabric, like Mary was choking him with a necktie, and through his gasping, Sherlock was reminded of when he was being strangled in Soo Lin Yao’s flat. His eyes flew open reflexively, and his arms struggled and pulled against the handcuffs, his body desperately wanting to reach up and yank the tie away from his throat. His legs tried to kick, but they were trapped, too. This was even worse than in Soo Lin Yao’s flat, because there was no way for him to fight back this time. His throat was tight and his chest was on fire. His torso was lifted off the ground, pressed against what he assumed were Mary’s knees as she bent down and pulled the tie tighter around his neck. She was behind him, and if Sherlock would have had the awareness or ability to turn around and look at her, he would have seen nothing but ice in her eyes. She was a trained killer. This may have been personal, but she was killing him like he was any of her other targets.

“John!” Sherlock choked out desperately. “John!” His heart was galloping, and his vision started to fade to black. He flailed fruitlessly, but he couldn’t see anything and there wasn’t a single molecule of air left in his chest. He stopped moving.

But then, the pressure around his neck abruptly disappeared as he heard the front door slam open with a loud bang.

Sherlock’s body fell to the floor, his cheek hitting the ground. He immediately started coughing violently, his lungs singing in relief and screaming for air. He heard some sort of commotion going on, but his drugged and oxygen-deprived brain couldn’t process any of it. He wheezed and hacked up more blood, and his chest hurt from lack of oxygen. He was beginning to make out the sounds around him.

“Where are the fucking keys?!”

_John?_

“In my pocket, moron,” Mary said, sounding bored. “I’d get them, but I can’t. You’ll have to.”

He heard more shuffling under the sounds of his coughs, which were now dying down to weak little puffs of air.

“There, now get her away from him!”

_John._

“With pleasure,” another man said darkly.

_Lestrade?_

Sherlock felt someone grab one of his hands, and he heard the sound of metal on metal as the key went inside the lock, and a few seconds later, his right arm dropped to his side as that handcuff was undone, and then his left arm did the same. His arms tingled and his wrists hurt. They were probably bruised, Sherlock thought as he felt the handcuffs leave his ankles, too. He was splayed out on the floor and taking deep breaths out of his mouth.

“Does he need to go to the hospital?” a female voice asked.

_Donovan?_

“He hates hospitals,” John said firmly (Sherlock was sure it was John now. His brain was starting to come back online). “I don’t think she did anything I can’t handle. Give us a minute, okay?”

Sherlock heard footsteps walk away. A hand gently shook his shoulder.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” John asked.

“Yes,” he said, voice croaky. John. John saved him. He should have known he would come.

“Can you look at me?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head towards the direction of John’s voice.

John was looking down at him, looking more concerned than Sherlock thought he ever saw him, but there was the restraint of a soldier there, too. Sherlock didn’t think he would see John again, and the relief made his eyes flood with tears.

That broke John’s restraint. “Oh, no, no, no,” he soothed, and carefully pulled Sherlock up by his arms, which were relatively unscathed, so he could bring him into an upright position and hug him against his chest.

Sherlock collapsed against John’s body, face in the crook of his neck, eyes stinging. “ _John_.”

“I’m sorry,” John whispered to Sherlock, holding him. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve known she wouldn’t let this go.”

“Not your fault,” Sherlock mumbled into his neck, trying not to break down in tears. John’s arms felt like heaven, and he wanted to disappear into his embrace and never return. “Can we go home?” he asked in a small voice.

“Of course,” John kissed the top of his head. “Can you stand?”

“Help me.”

John wrapped his strong arms around Sherlock’s waist and slowly stood up, bringing Sherlock with him. Sherlock’s legs wobbled and he clutched the front of John’s jacket for support.

“Easy,” John told him. “Easy. Let’s try to walk.”

Sherlock tried, but he was shaky and in pain, and while he felt more sober than he did when he woke up, he still felt completely disoriented. He stumbled, but John caught him.

“Would it be easier if I carried you?” John asked.

Sherlock’s cheeks heated. “That’s pathetic.”

“Sherlock, you’re not well. And it’s just me, right? I don’t think you’re pathetic.”

Sherlock was so tired. He nodded meekly.

“That’s a yes? Okay. Wrap your arms around my neck.”

Sherlock did, and in a swift movement that would have been sexy in another scenario, John easily swooped Sherlock off his feet. John was holding him bridal style, and Sherlock rested his head against his shoulder and closed his eyes, his body aching, head pounding, nose and mouth bleeding from Mary’s punches, throat sore. From what he heard, members of the Yard had to be outside, but he legitimately didn’t have the energy to protest being carried like this in front of them. He felt John walking, and the cool breeze of spring hit him when they got outside. Still wet from the bucket of water, he trembled.

“I can take you back to Baker Street,” Lestrade told them.

Sherlock didn’t bother to open his eyes. He didn’t want to see a look of pity on anyone’s faces.

“Thanks, Greg,” John muttered.

Sherlock felt them moving again, and soon he felt John place him on the seat of a car. He opened his eyes to see Lestrade getting into the driver’s seat, and John sitting down next to him.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade looked at him in the rearview mirror, “sure you don’t need to go to a hospital?” His tone was light, or at least attempting to be. He knew Sherlock didn’t like to be coddled (by anyone but John, at least).

He appreciated that. “I need to go home,” he said. “John’s capable of handling this.”

“Damn right I am,” John nodded.

Sherlock would have grinned if he weren’t so tired. He put his head on John’s shoulder and closed his eyes during the ride home.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, John carefully placed Sherlock down on their bed.

John swallowed, licking his lips. “I’ll be right back to get my kit.”

Sherlock made a hum of acknowledgement as John left the room. He sighed. He felt like utter shite, but he was glad to be home. He was tired of being in these wet clothes, though, and slowly sat up to take them off. Taking his shirt off was pretty easy, but reaching down to take off his shoes made him hiss in pain, his bruised ribs aggravated. He kicked them off instead.

When John returned, he was down to his pants.

“Aren’t you cold?” John asked.

“A bit, but the clothes were making it worse.”

John nodded, frowning at the fresh bruises on his body. “Lie back against the pillows and headboard.”

Sherlock did.

John had his kit under his arm, and a glass of water and a couple acetaminophen pills in his hands. He sat down next to him on the side of the bed. “Take these.”

Sherlock took the pills and swallowed them down with the water, hoping it would kick in as soon as possible.

John was fiddling around with his medical kit, not looking at Sherlock. “They’re, er, going to question Mary. Where she got the sedative she shot into you, and all that rot.” John looked at him, eyes shining with unshed tears.

Sherlock gulped and looked away. “If you start, I’ll start,” he said.

John kissed the cheek Mary didn’t hit. “I should have listened to you,” he whispered shakily, and he started crying.

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “John, it’s neither of our faults.”

“I should’ve protected you,” he cried into Sherlock’s bare shoulder, his tears dampening the skin. “That bitch tried to kill you once. Why did I think she’d leave us alone?”

Sherlock turned his face and kissed the top of John’s head, hot tears slipping down his cheeks. His cheekbone stung. A cut must have been there. “Please, John, don’t blame yourself.”

John lifted his head, tears staining his cheeks. “I gotta stop crying,” he wiped his face roughly with the back of his hand. “I’ve got to take care of you.”

Sherlock knew John was going to blame himself for this, and he hated it. “John, this is no one’s fault but her own. She did this.”

John sniffed. “But I could’ve--”

“You saved me,” Sherlock said emphatically. “That’s what you could have done, and you did.”

John exhaled slowly, trying to absorb Sherlock’s words. He busied himself by wetting a cotton ball with rubbing alcohol from his kit. “I’m sorry if this stings,” he said, “but I want to clean the wound.” He pressed the wet cotton ball to Sherlock’s nose.

Sherlock bit his lip and held back a grunt of pain, his nose burning.

“Unfortunately, this just has to heal. It’s not severe enough to need a stint,” John said, looking at him sympathetically. He tossed the cotton ball into the nearby trash bin, and got another one and applied it to Sherlock’s forehead.

Ah, so a gash was there.

“Tell me what she did to you,” John said quietly, but intently. “I want to know it all.”

Sherlock sighed. “She told me she tried to wake me up by hitting me. I think that’s where the cut on my cheekbone came from. She’s bitter, and told me she had nothing to lose. That’s why she did it. She wanted me dead and you heartbroken. She punched me and kicked me.” He swallowed. “She kicked me...down there, too.”

John’s gaze turned thunderous. “She bloody what?!”

“The fact that we’ve had sex angers her.”

John threw the other cotton ball away forcefully. He looked like he wanted to punch something, and was struggling to hold himself back from putting a hole through the wall. “What else did she do?”

“She banged my head against the wall and the floor several times. There’s a gash on my forehead?”

“Yeah. It’s not too bad, but the middle of your forehead looks red and raw.” He looked Sherlock over. “I don’t think you’re concussed.”

“I don’t feel concussed.”

“Good.” He looked down at Sherlock’s abdomen with a grimace. “These are from her kicks?”

“Yes.”

John sighed harshly. “Anything else?”

“She punched me in the mouth, but none of my teeth feel loose.” The top of his gum below his nose ached, though.

John slammed the lid of his medical kit shut, shaking his head. He really looked like he wanted to punch something. “That fucking--I’m sorry, Sherlock, but all of this just has to heal. Let me get you some ice.”

He shot out of his chair, and Sherlock wasn’t surprised to hear and bang, and then to see John’s knuckles reddened when he returned. _Yep: punched a wall._

Sherlock frowned at the ice pack. “I’m still cold.”

“I know, but you have swelling that needs to go down. I can try to make you warm under the covers, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, his heart suddenly clenching and needing physical affection. “Okay.”

He gave Sherlock the ice pack and walked to the dresser.

Sherlock’s bruises on his abdomen hurt, but his head felt like someone was repeatedly hitting it with a hammer, so he held it there instead.

John walked over with socks and put them on Sherlock’s feet. “That should make you at least a little warmer.”

Sherlock wiggled his toes in appreciation. He climbed under the sheets and duvet.

John took off his jacket and shoes and joined him. He turned on his side and held out his arms, eyes growing wet again. “Come here.”

Sherlock sniffed and shuffled into John’s arms, exhausted. He put his face in John’s chest and started trembling. John took the ice pack from his hand and held it for him with one hand, and wrapped his other arm around Sherlock.

Sherlock’s body hurt so much, and John was so warm, and he couldn’t stop the hitch in his breath.

“It’s okay,” John whispered in his ear. “You’re safe now. I won’t let her hurt you anymore,” his voice cracked at the end. His warm hand ran down Sherlock’s back. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” Sherlock whimpered. “No, please keep doing it.” He closed his eyes and cried into John’s collarbone. Everything hurt and he was overwhelmed. The fact that Mary loathed him so much didn’t surprise him, but it hurt, because she was right. He trusted people too easily. He trusted her once, and trusted her to go away this time around. He was tired of her trying to ruin his life. He was tired of her trying to _end_ his life.

“I was so fucking terrified,” John whispered. “I knew she was doing something terrible to you.”

“How--” Sherlock hiccupped, and took a moment to catch his breath. “How’d you know I was missing?”

“You were taking way too long to come back from buying bloody condoms. I just--I know I told you not to worry, but I remembered our conversation about Mary, and I couldn’t shake it, and I worried too much to let it go. I asked Mycroft to track your phone, and it was found abandoned on the sidewalk.”

Sherlock wiped his eyes with his hand. “It must have fallen out of my pocket when Mary dragged me to her car.” Wait. “Where’s my coat?”

“God, Sherlock, is that what you’re really bloody worried about?” John asked in exasperation.

“Sorry.”

“How’d you get to Mary’s anyway? How’d she drug you?”

Sherlock scowled. “A member of my homeless network betrayed me. I’ll have to deal with her later. If I tell the other members, I’m sure they’ll take care of her somehow.”

“That’s fucked up. Hey, I know you’re comfortable, and I love holding you, but with a broken nose, you should be more elevated.”

Sherlock sighed. He took the ice pack from John’s hand and shimmied so he was on his back, propped up against the pillows. He put the ice pack back on his head. “Better, doctor?”

John propped himself up on his elbow to look down at him. “Yes.” His face softened, and Sherlock swore he could see John’s eyes turn a darker blue. John placed a pedal-soft kiss on his lips. “I knew it had to be her. Mycroft tracked her cell phone and saw it was in her house, so I called Lestrade and we rushed over right away.” He blinked back tears. “I’m sorry it took us so long.”

Sherlock shook his head against the ice pack. “You saved me. That’s what matters.”

“But look at you,” John croaked. He cleared his throat. “You’re battered and bruised and she almost choked you to death.”

Sherlock swallowed reflexively.

John blinked and two tears rolled down his cheeks. “I almost lost you again today.” He wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s uninjured waist and kissed the shell of his ear. “I love you so much, Sherlock.”

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John and buried his face in his short hair. “I love you, too, John.” He let out an unsteady breath. “I thought I’d never see you again. I thought...I thought that was it.”

John’s arm curled tighter around him. “I might’ve failed you by letting her hurt you, but I’ll always be there for you. _Always_ ,” he said hoarsely.

Sherlock blinked rapidly. “John, kiss me, please.”

John was on his stomach and sat up on his elbows. He cupped Sherlock’s bruised face gently, cautiously, and brought their lips together. Sherlock sobbed into his mouth, the warmth of John’s lips a better balm on his wounds than any medicine. He tossed the ice pack aside and it landed somewhere on the floor.

John’s thumb stroked his cheeks. “My poor, beautiful man,” John murmured against his lips. “She can’t hurt you ever again. I’m sorry this happened, but we don’t have to worry anymore, yeah?”

That...was true. Sherlock’s body melted into the mattress in relief. John was right. They wouldn’t have to worry about her if she were behind bars.

John pulled back and caressed Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered shut at the touch, and a deep hum came from his throat. God, he was so tired.

John placed a small kiss on his jaw. “You’ll be okay, Sherlock. Physically, like I said, it’ll all heal up, but emotionally, you will be, too. You know why?”

“Why?” Sherlock opened his eyes.

John’s smile was fond. “Because you’re bloody better than Mary, that’s why, and you won’t let her keep upsetting you.”

Sherlock giggled. “I love you.” Leave it to his John to cheer him up, even with his body hurting.

John’s soft smile widened. “I love you, too. You look tired.”

“I’m ridiculously exhausted.” Having his hair petted made him sleepy in general, but today, he found it difficult to keep his eyes open and focused on John. The pillows were soft behind his throbbing head, and the blankets along with John’s body heat finally stopped his shivering.

“Your body needs to rest up. I’ll be right here lying with you. We can deal with your statement to Lestrade and all that rubbish tomorrow, okay?”

Sherlock closed his eyes again. “Okay.” The painkillers were finally starting to do their job, and the painful pulsing in his head, face, and ribs was dying down enough that he felt like he could relax. His eyelids felt heavy even as they were closed, and the rhythmic caresses from John’s hand did make him feel safe. He fell asleep with John placing tiny, delicate kisses on the side of his jaw.

* * *

Three months later, Sherlock and John walked away from the courthouse hand-in-hand. They didn’t even look at Mary as she was put into a police car. They decided that, no, they didn’t want Mycroft to handle it all for them, and instead wanted her to face consequences from the law itself. Her drugging, kidnapping, and assault done to Sherlock were only the tip of the iceberg to the jury compared to her crimes as an assassin (and, okay, they did get Mycroft’s help with that). Sherlock had given his own testimony as if reciting the facts of any case--devoid of emotion. Mary didn’t deserve his sadness.

“Finally,” John sighed in relief when they sat down in the cab, “we can safely say we’ll never see her again.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock chimed in with a smile, lacing his fingers together with John’s. “Let’s go home. Baker Street,” he told the cabbie.

The cabbie nodded and drove.

John scooted closer to Sherlock. He kissed the tip of his nose. “I’m glad it’s all over. You’re all healed up, and we can get the hell on with our lives.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand. “I can’t wait to start a new life with you,” he said sincerely.

John grinned. “Yeah.” They kissed softly, and the sounds of their lips sliding together made the cabbie clear his throat. They kept kissing.

The cabbie cleared his throat again, and John growled, “Bugger off, we’re in love.”

Sherlock giggled and they kissed the rest of the way home.

“We’re here,” the cabbie said pointedly when he pulled up at Baker Street.

They pulled apart and John paid the driver. When they got into the flat, they collapsed onto the sofa, John on his back, and Sherlock sprawled on top of him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s torso and yawned. It had been a long three and a half months since he first walked in on John and Mary having sex, but if the end result was being with John Watson without any threat to their relationship anymore, Sherlock considered it worth it.

But he meant it when he said he wanted to start a new chapter in their lives. He loved John, and he wanted to focus on that, and that alone, for the rest of their days. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we never talk about Mary again?”

John snorted, hugging Sherlock. “Sounds fine by me. Let’s delete her from our minds, shall we?”

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, sounds wonderful.” He kissed John’s chest, feeling peaceful. He started snickering.

“What?” John asked.

“All of this started because I walked in on you having sex.”

John laughed lightly. “Yeah, yeah it did, and you concocted your convoluted plan after I was a dick.”

Sherlock moved up so his head was resting on John’s shoulder. “It was worth it.”

John looked down at him, face suddenly growing serious. “Was it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said firmly. “To be with you is worth any wound, John.”

John turned on his side and hugged Sherlock tightly to his chest.

Sherlock let out an _oof_ and a laugh. “I thought I was the limpet in the relationship,” he joked.

“To be loved by you is better than I ever could have imagined,” John said into his neck. “I always loved you, but I didn’t think, before--I didn’t know how deeply you love.”

“I know,” Sherlock said patiently.

“But I do now,” John shifted and stared into his eyes. “And you bloody know what? I’m ready to do nothing but love you for the rest of our lives.”

Sherlock smiled and his cheeks bloomed with warmth. “Me too.”

Sherlock’s chest was filled with warmth as John’s mouth found his in a hot, wet kiss. Loving each other for the rest of their lives sounded perfect, and they would both be true to their word. They would put everything behind them, all of the misunderstandings and Mary. Why should they have cared about anything else in the world, now that they knew they could be together? To them, that was all that ever really mattered--them going from Sherlock and John to Sherlock-and-John: one unit, two halves of one soul.

“Sherlock,” John chuckled into the kiss, “I’m losing you. Are you getting lost in your head again?”

“Sorry, yes,” Sherlock admitted with a chuckle of his own.

“Get back to kissing me.”

“With pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank Christ it's over lmao. Sorry if this has typos or generally kinda sucks because it's 2:41 in the morning and I AM VERY TIRED.  
> Btw, if you read my s4 fix-it story [Repentance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9707135/chapters/22947516) , I added a porny epilogue. So if you liked it and want tender handjobs, go read the epilogue lol.  
> Also, I just wrote a story where Culverton Smith forces Sherlock to say he loves John instead of saying he doesn't want to die. It's called [I Want to Hear You Say It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10793391/chapters/23940729). It'll have a happy ending though, lol. EDIT: it now has the happy ending.  
> One more thing: I'm in the middle of an AU timeline fic where post-s4 John is transported back to the night Sherlock returned from the dead, called [Before You Know It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10514190/chapters/23204586%22). If you want s4 John interacting with s3 Sherlock, there ya go.
> 
> Basically, if you need some s4 fix-its, I got you :)
> 
> But anyway, thank you all so much for reading this story! Even though I was done with it by the end, I did enjoy writing it and appreciated every single kudo and comment along the way. I wouldn't write these stories if it weren't for you guys.
> 
> If you ever want to chat, stop by my [tumblr](https://obsessivelollipoplalala.tumblr.com) :)
> 
> Okay I'm going to bed goodnight I hope you liked this


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